


A Haunt Of Owls

by Suzie_Shooter



Series: Midsomer Musketeers [7]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Jealousy, M/M, Murder Mystery, Nightmares, Sexual Content, Supernatural Elements, ghost story, paternity issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 07:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15286965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: Aramis asks Athos and Porthos to join him helping Anne renovate the old manor house she's inherited. Finding that Anne believes the place is haunted, Athos starts to investigate, but when someone is killed in a seemingly freak accident Porthos is convinced there are more earthly threats at work.(Part seven in the Midsomer Musketeers series)





	1. Chapter 1

It was only the wind.

That was what Anne told herself sternly, as the old house creaked around her. It was the wind that made the old timbers groan, the wind that made the electric lights flicker. That was all.

The house she'd shared with her late husband had been solidly built, of good brick and elegant Portland stone. This house, the old Manor, was older and had _ways_. The floors were uneven, the old beams seemed to catch and absorb the light, and it creaked.

Especially at night.

She was preparing to go to bed when she heard the crying. It was muffled by the walls, but unmistakeable, the thin high wailing of a frightened child. 

"Oh Louis." She wrapped her dressing gown around her and hurried out into the hall. She didn't blame him for being upset, having to sleep in new and strange surroundings, but she was slightly irritated that Candice hadn't gone to see to him. It was what the woman was paid for, after all.

Anne opened the door to her son’s room and the sound of crying cut off as if a switch had been flicked. Anne stood in the doorway, blinking in confusion. Louis was fast asleep, one small fist pushed against his mouth. He looked peaceful, and not at all distressed. 

But if it hadn't been him crying, then who?

Even as the thought occurred to her, a loud creaking came from the floor above and she froze. She wasn't alone in the house, but there shouldn't have been anyone up there, especially at this time of night.

She knocked quietly on the door next to Louis' room. After a second it was opened by his nanny. Candice blinked out at her, headphones dangling from one ear and a can of diet coke in her hand.

"Did you want me?"

Anne stared at her. There was no indication that Candice had been crying either, and if she was in her room she patently wasn't wandering around upstairs. 

"Did you hear anything just now? Crying?"

"No? Louis' been good as gold since I put him down." She sounded defensive, and Anne backed off.

"Sorry. I must be hearing things. Good night."

She hesitated, then walked down the corridor to the only other occupied room. Outside, she paused again, knowing how it would look to be knocking on his door at this time of night, in her nightdress of all things.

"Anne?"

The voice came from behind her and she jumped. 

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you. Were you looking for me? I just went down for a nightcap, I hope you don't mind."

He was standing at the top of the stairs, glass in hand, looking relaxed and politely enquiring.

"No - no, of course not," Anne smiled, flustered. "You, er - you weren't upstairs just now were you?"

"No, downstairs, why?"

"It doesn't matter. Just me being stupid."

"Creepy old place at night," he agreed with a smile, passing her to open the door to his bedroom. He lingered in the doorway and raised an eyebrow. "Coming in?"

Anne wavered. He was tall and handsome, and devastatingly charming, and she was uneasy on her own, and just joining him in his room for a drink didn't mean anything, but - 

But.

"No, no I think I'll turn in. I'll see you in the morning." Anne stepped back. "Goodnight Luke."

\-- 

The following evening Athos and Porthos were walking down to the village pub for a pre-supper pint when Athos caught sight of Anne across the square with a man he took at first to be Aramis. About to wave, he just stopped himself in time as he realised it was a stranger with similar build and colouring.

"Who's that with Anne Bourbon?"

Porthos turned to look. The couple had just come out of the convenience store, and the man was holding open a car door for her. They were both laughing.

"Dunno, never seen him before." Porthos nudged him. "Looks like Aramis might have some competition though. What d'you reckon they've done with the kid?"

"Probably got a nanny," said Athos, and Porthos snorted derisively.

"Oh yeah. I forgot some people still have staff."

"Technically so do I," said Athos mildly, and Porthos looked embarrassed. 

"Well I didn't mean you, did I?"

"What's the difference? Or do you think I'm despicably bourgeois for paying a cleaner?"

"I think you've already got more money than I could hope to earn in my whole career, and we should change the subject," said Porthos. 

“Would you be happier if I gave it all away and went to live in a yurt?” Athos asked innocently, following Porthos down the street as he marched along at an irritable speed.

“Can we drop this?” Porthos muttered, finally realising what he was doing and letting Athos catch up.

“If you’ve genuinely got a problem with it, maybe we shouldn’t,” Athos said neutrally. “What _is_ the problem? I may have been on a ridiculous salary, but I earned it, same as anyone else.”

“And inherited the rest,” Porthos finished for him. “I’m not on a bad whack myself, but I know I couldn’t afford a house here, let alone a flat in the city as well.” 

“If I could exchange the money in return for having my parents and my brother back, do you think I’d hesitate?” Athos asked. 

Porthos’ face fell immediately. “Oh shit Athos, I wasn’t thinking. God I’m sorry.”

Athos slipped an arm into his. “Are you angry with me?” he asked quietly. “Is there something else bothering you?”

“No.” Porthos sighed, squeezing his arm. “It’s not you, not really. I’m sorry. I’m just in a weird mood. I’ve never really felt like I belonged anywhere, and this business with my father’s just making me feel more adrift than ever.”

“You belong here,” Athos told him softly. “With me. The future matters more than the past.” 

“That’s easy to say when you know where you come from,” Porthos said. He heaved another sigh, and set his shoulders. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to a be a misery. I need a distraction. Work’s too quiet right now. Even Marcheaux’s behaving himself. I need something else to think about.”

“Short of bumping someone off, I’ll see what I can do.”

\--

They had one lead as far as the identity of Porthos’ birth father went, but Athos’ attempts to follow it up over the last couple of weeks had got nowhere. He’d tried to get further information out of Ethel, but she’d remained oddly tight-lipped, and he’d finally twigged that the Official Secrets Act probably came into it somewhere. 

All he had was a name – Treville – but then he realised the very obscurity surrounding the man might itself provide a clue about where to look. This would take resources he didn’t currently have, but a large city law firm such as Benet & Shaw held information on all kinds of areas that government would probably rather it didn’t.

The next morning he phoned Constance.

“Hello you. I'm after a favour."

“Last time I did you a favour I ended up stuck under a desk all night.”

“It won’t be that bad this time, I promise. I just need you to look someone up for me.” 

"Can't say no really, can I?" Constance sighed, and Athos immediately felt guilty. 

"Oh - God, no, I would never - "

"I'm joking," Constance assured him, although she was privately relieved by his reaction. There were worse people to be indebted to than Athos, but she was still awkwardly aware he'd recently gifted her a huge sum of money. "What do you need?"

"I want you to do a name search for me. I'm trying to track someone down, and all I've got is a surname, which isn't getting me anywhere. I figured the firm’s databases might be more comprehensive in certain areas than google."

"I see." Unauthorised access of confidential data records was theoretically a sackable offence, although plenty of it went on, and any challenge could usually be met by inventing a spurious connection to a casefile.

"If you'd rather not..."

"No, it's fine." Constance was conscious of a sense of obligation to him, even if Athos wasn't openly invoking it. "Who is it, anyway? What have they done?"

"The name's Treville, and we think he may have information about Porthos' father. He may even _be_ his father, but we're less sure about that. All we know is that he used to regularly visit Porthos' foster mother when he was a child, and he may have connections to the secret service - MI5, MI6, GCHQ, not sure. Something like that." 

"You want me to track down a spook?" Constance asked incredulously.

"I'm not asking you to contact him. We'll do that. Just - find out who he is, where he might be found. An address, a number – anything." 

“Alright. I’ll let you know what I find. But if you get me sacked I’m coming for you.”

\--

That evening Porthos unexpectedly got his wish for a distraction when Aramis turned up on the doorstep with a plea for help.

“You, er – you two busy?” Aramis asked, with a studied nonchalance that made them exchange a look and a smile.

“Now there’s a loaded question,” Athos teased. “Well you know I’m not. What did you have in mind?”

Athos had gone back to work for a few hours a week, just enough to keep abreast of what was happening in case Drew needed him to step in and cover. Despite so far sticking to his resolution to cut out the sedatives completely, he still had good days and bad days so hadn’t risked going back full time yet. This left him largely at a loose end, meaning Porthos wasn’t the only one who was pleased at the thought Aramis might have something up his sleeve for them.

“You know how Anne inherited the Manor?”

“Looking to turn it into a hotel isn’t she?” Porthos asked.

“Yes. Well, it’s about that really. She’s trying to keep the budget down by doing a lot of the work herself, or with local help. We’re looking at getting a bit of a working party together next week, and wondered if you’d be up for lending a hand.”

“Well I don’t know much about DIY, but I can probably manage to wield a paintbrush if somebody points me in the right direction,” Athos conceded. He looked at Porthos. “How about it?” 

“Me? I’ll be at work.”

“You could use up some of your leave. You did say it was quiet right now. It might be fun?”

“You’re both welcome to sleep over too if you want,” Aramis added. “Bit basic up there yet, but plenty of room.”

Porthos considered. He did had quite a bit of leave to take, and if he didn’t use it by the end of March he’d lose it. 

“Alright. I can probably get next week off. We can make a proper party of it.”

“We, er – we saw Anne with a chap in the village yesterday?” Athos ventured. “Was that one of her volunteers?”

"Luke Buckingham," said Aramis darkly. "He's apparently some cousin of Louis'. Turned up out of the blue. He’s an interior designer with links to some university, he’s bringing a couple of students down to help out. Anne says he’s a big help.”

His tone suggested he wasn't quite as happy with this arrangement as his words might indicate, but Athos and Porthos tactfully said nothing, merely promised to turn up that weekend.

When Aramis had gone they looked at each other.

“Do you get the impression we’ve just become pawns in a game of lady’s favour?” Porthos laughed.

Athos shrugged philosophically. “Never mind. I suppose it’s in a good cause.”

\--

That Sunday they arrived as promised just after lunch, Athos looking around him with interest as Porthos drove up the long and winding drive.

The house came into view as they rounded the final bend, imposing grey stone and slate, with an old rambling rose covering much of the façade. Stone owl finials looked sternly down at them from regular intervals along the roof line, weathered and yellow with lichen.

“The owls of Owlbrook Manor,” Athos murmured as they pulled up next to a short row of other cars. 

“Sounds like a gothic novel,” Porthos grinned. 

“Ever feel like you’re being watched?”

“As long as none of them turn their heads to follow us.” Porthos gave a mock shudder. “Anyway, we are being watched.”

There was a young man standing by the front door wielding a pair of pruning shears against the encroaching rose, and he must have announced their arrival inside because Aramis and Anne appeared on the steps as they walked over with their bags.

“Athos – Porthos – thank you for coming.” Aramis sounded relieved. “You’ve met Anne, I think?”

Neither of them had had much more than a nodding acquaintance with her, but everyone smiled politely and shook hands. In a village the size of Owlbrook, you felt like you knew people you’d barely ever spoken to. Sometimes better than they’d like you to.

“This is Gavin, he’s the groundskeeper.” Aramis indicated the young man with the shears, who gave them a nervous smile. 

“You’ve made a good job of the lawn,” Porthos said enthusiastically. “Last time I was here I had to chase a fugitive across it.”

“That was you?” 

Porthos looked surprised and Gavin immediately flushed and stammered an explanation. “I mean – Anne’s been telling us something of the history of the place. You were involved? In catching the murderer I mean?”

“Porthos is a policeman,” Aramis explained. “Detective Inspector, in fact.”

“Really? How exciting.” Gavin gave Porthos big eyes, and stared after them as they followed Anne inside.

“I think you’ve got a fan,” Athos whispered in amusement. Porthos snorted with laughter and jostled him.

“Get out.”

“Do policemen _have_ groupies?”

“Not as a rule.” Porthos grinned at him. “And nobody’s once offered to bribe me with sexual favours. It’s most disappointing.”

Anne lead them to a room on the first floor. It overlooked the front drive, and had a large brass bedstead and several pieces of solid oak furniture, but no carpet or curtains.

“Sorry it’s a bit bare,” Anne apologised. “I hope it’ll be okay for you. There’s a bathroom just down the hallway.”

“It’ll be fine, thank you,” said Athos. “That’s what we’re here for, right? To do the old place up a bit.”

“Yes, and thank you so much. I’ve got people on board to fit out en-suites and so-on, but the more we can do in-house as far as the basic stuff, the further the money will go.”

“No problem. Just let us know where you’d like us to start.”

“Luke’s co-ordinating the jobs,” Anne said. “Sorry, I don’t think you’ve met him yet, Luke Buckingham, he’s a cousin of my late husband. He’s downstairs, I’ll introduce you.” 

\--

Anne lead them into what had once been a sun-room at the back of the house. Pre-dating modern conservatories by some decades, there were panes of glass missing, the painted wooden frame was rotten and peeling, and the ancient vine clambering over the roof supports was half-strangled by the brambles that had forced their way in from outside. Nevertheless, it was somehow an appealing space, smelling of warm earth and faintly of cucumbers.

Buckingham was up a ladder scraping rust off an ornamental light fitting. He clambered down when they came in, and shook hands.

“This is Athos and Porthos,” Anne told him “Friends of Aramis.”

“The more the merrier.” Buckingham beamed at them. “Thank you for contributing to the rescue effort. She’s a fine old place, if sadly neglected.”

“It’s been empty for a year or so,” Athos observed.

“And it looks like the old Marquis and his murderous manservant only occupied a few of the rooms in any case.” Buckingham nodded at Porthos, looking inquisitive. “Porthos – would I be right in thinking you were instrumental in the arrest of the murderer?”

“So was Athos,” Porthos said. “He - ” 

He’d been going to say ‘found the body’, but caught Athos’ look of discomfort just in time. “He was invaluable. It was how we met.”

“Glad some good came out of it then. Now, any preferences as to what you’d like to do? There’s all sorts. Would you rather work inside or outside?”

Porthos said ‘outside’ just as Athos said ‘inside’, and Buckingham laughed. “Well, there’s no shortage of jobs. Let’s see what we can set you up with.”

He led Athos to a stately ballroom where a hideous old carpet was being gradually pried up to reveal a beautiful tiled floor beneath, then ushered Porthos outside explaining that those window frames that could be rescued needed sanding down and repainting. 

Not long after they’d disappeared, Aramis sidled in from the hallway and cautiously closed the door.

“Come to help with the carpet?” Athos asked hopefully. It had been stuck down with a vicious adhesive that was leaving a brown stain on the tiles beneath, which would need a lot of scrubbing.

“If you like.” Aramis grabbed a brush, and after a few minutes of industrious labour sat back on his heels and looked at Athos. “I’ve come to confess. I may have had an ulterior motive for asking you here.”

“Let me guess. You want Anne to think you’re being as useful as Buckingham?”

Aramis looked startled. “I hadn’t realised I was that transparent,” he muttered, giving Athos an embarrassed smile. “Although that wasn’t what I was actually going to say.”

“We don’t mind, you know. We’re happy to help out.” Athos shook his head curiously. “So what’s the other reason?”

“It’s – well, Anne’s afraid of the place.”

“That’s understandable. Young woman on her own in a rattly old place like this with a small child. Must be preferable to have other people around.”

“No, I don’t mean she’s afraid of intruders or whatever. I mean - ” Aramis looked pained. “She thinks it’s haunted.”

“Haunted?” Athos hid a smile. “So, I’m guessing you explained they don’t exist, but mysteriously that didn’t help?”

Aramis gave him a look. “I asked you here for advice, not sarcasm.”

“No extra charge.” Athos went back to chiselling up the carpet. “So how do you think I can help?”

“Well, you thought your house was haunted didn’t you? And you haven’t run screaming back to London, so I have to assume you rationalised it somehow.”

“Possibly. Although I’m not sure you’ll like my reasoning,” Athos said cautiously.

“What do you mean? You don’t still think it’s haunted, do you?”

Athos considered. “How can I best put this – I have yet to be convinced that it’s not.”

“It doesn’t bother you? Being alone there?”

“Actually, it helped me feel less alone. Particularly before Porthos moved in. It doesn’t feel threatening, at least not any more. We’ve come to an understanding. I don’t try and have him exorcised, he doesn’t hurl things off my shelves.”

“You genuinely believe this?” Aramis persisted, looking at him sideways.

Athos sighed. “Maybe it is all in my head. I can’t prove anything either way. If it’s not hurting anyone, then what does it matter? But you say Anne’s afraid?”

Aramis nodded. “She says the place has got a bad atmosphere.”

“The place in general? Or does she think it’s specifically a ghost?”

“There’s a difference?”

“I’d say so, yes. I’m not an expert though, by any means. I only know what I’ve picked up in conversation with Ninon. You’d be better off getting her up here.”

“She’s a practising witch. The Church tends to frown on that sort of thing.”

“I thought it was all about Interfaith these days? But alright, yes, I do think there’s a difference. Places can be – tainted, I suppose you could say. Pick up an atmosphere from the inhabitants or from things that have happened there. Or they could be haunted by an actual ghost.”

“Do you think it could be the old Marquis?”

“I couldn’t say. He wasn’t killed here though, was he? He was - ” Athos broke off, and Aramis winced. Feron had been murdered right behind Athos’ own house, and the events surrounding it had been hard on him.

“Sorry. Just an idea. You don’t believe it’s him haunting _your_ place?” Aramis added, as an afterthought.

“No. Never felt a thing connected with it in that way. Suppose I should be grateful.”

“I’ve been all over this house, and I can’t say any of it feels different to me,” Aramis sighed. “Shouldn’t I be able to pick up on it, if there is something? Or is it because I don’t believe in them?”

“I don’t think belief has anything to do with it,” Athos said carefully. “The way it was explained to me, I think it’s more a question of sensitivity. Some people are naturally more – attuned, I suppose you’d say. To that side of things.”

“And you’re one of them?” There was still a note of scepticism in Aramis’ voice, and Athos flushed.

“It’s not something I asked for, believe me.”

Aramis held up his hands. “I apologise. I’m not even sure what I’m asking you to do. I just know that Anne is genuinely scared of something, and I want to help.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Athos promised. 

\--

They all gathered for dinner at seven, sitting around a large trestle table in the kitchen rather than the dining room, as it was a lot warmer. It was nearing the end of March, and still bitterly cold overnight. 

The room was lit by candles and old fashioned oil lamps, which Athos initially assumed was for effect, but apparently not. 

“Sorry it’s so dark.” Anne looked embarrassed. “The electric’s gone again. We’re on a generator you see, and it keeps tripping out. We’ve got a mains connection coming, but they’re going to have to dig a trench all the way up the drive.”

“It’s very atmospheric,” Athos told her, and she smiled at him.

“At least it stayed on long enough to cook dinner,” said Aramis cheerfully. “We can have a look at the generator afterwards.”

Buckingham’s two students had produced a hearty sausage and bean casserole, and everyone dug in with a will after their day of hard labour. Athos already had a blister on his palm from scraping up stubborn bits of underlay, and Porthos had a scratch across one cheek where he declared the rambling rose had attacked him. Everyone sported war-wounds to some extent, but the mood around the table was festive.

Athos looked around with interest. He had Porthos to his left and Aramis to his right. Anne was next to Aramis at the head of the table, Buckingham was opposite her at the other end, next to Porthos. On the other side sat Gavin the groundsman, and Buckingham’s two students, Laura and Jensen. 

Now Athos had time to study people at leisure he realised Gavin was a lot younger than he’d first assumed, barely into his twenties. Laura was a sensible looking young woman from Lancashire, and Jensen was from Brooklyn in New York, as he explained at length to Athos and Porthos at a volume that precluded any other conversation from taking place.

As soon as he paused to draw breath Buckingham slid smoothly into the breach and struck up a conversation with Porthos, while Anne turned to Laura with a question about curtain fabrics and Aramis quickly started talking to Athos about plans for an Easter fête. Denied of a wider audience, Jensen turned willingly enough to talk to Gavin, who looked less than thrilled to be the recipient of the American’s undivided attention. 

Conversation, food and wine had been flowing for several minutes when the door opened and Candice came in. She didn’t try to disguise the glower of annoyance that everyone had started without her, and scraped a chair loudly across the flagstone floor to make a space for herself next to Buckingham. Gavin, Jensen and Laura all had to shuffle awkwardly in turn further along the table to make room.

“Sorry, I didn’t realise we had another person.” Porthos was on his feet, doling out a portion of casserole from the pot and feeling annoyed on the girl’s behalf that no-one else had mentioned her presence. As it was, he could only just scrape up a reasonable plateful, which she accepted with a sullen mutter of thanks.

“Is Louis alright?” Anne asked, either oblivious to Candice’s irritation or deliberately ignoring it. 

“He’s fine. All settled,” said Candice shortly. 

Athos wondered if he’d imagined the flicker of dislike passing between the two women. “How old is he now?” he asked, attempting to lighten the slightly chilly atmosphere that had descended.

“He’s almost two,” Anne told him, giving him a grateful smile. “He’s getting so big now!”

“Spitting image of his father,” Buckingham agreed cheerfully, and Athos nearly choked on his wine. He resisted looking at Aramis but he could feel the tension emanating from him like an icy blast.

“So you’d be like what, his second cousin?” Jensen asked. “I’m fascinated by family trees. So many years of history in a place like this.”

“No, first cousin once removed. I hadn’t seen his father since we were kids though.”

“Where were you all that time?” Aramis asked, affecting polite interest but with a certain cold steel beneath his words.

“I’m afraid my branch of the family were the poor relations. I’m sure you understand how it is,” Buckingham replied, equally politely and equally barbed.

“You’ve done very well though.” This was from Candice, looking up at him with the first smile she’d cracked since entering the room. “Tell us about the course you run again.”

There was a muffled groan from Gavin, suggesting this wasn’t the first time they’d been subjected to what turned out to be a detailed monologue on interior design and sympathetic restoration, while the look Anne gave Candice was nothing short of venomous. 

Athos felt Porthos nudge his knee and they exchanged a look. There were a lot of undercurrents around this table tonight, however cheerful it might appear on the surface.

\--

As soon as dinner was over Aramis and Buckingham simultaneously offered to go and restart the generator, exchanging stiff smiles as Anne blithely accepted both offers.

Porthos got to his feet and followed them. “Someone’d better keep the peace,” he murmured in Athos’ ear. “At this rate it’ll be pistols at dawn.”

Athos remained behind, conscious of his promise to have a word with Anne about the possible haunting. Jensen and Laura, having cooked the meal in the first place were excused washing up duties and Candice had disappeared without offering.

“Thank you Athos.” Anne gave him a smile of tired gratitude as he carried the stacked plates over to the sink and set about drying up the dishes she’d already washed.

“How are you settling in?” he asked casually. “I guess an old place like this has its own particular foibles?”

“There’s a lot to do,” she agreed. “Sometimes I wonder if it will ever be finished in time.”

“Is there any particular rush?” As far as Athos knew Anne wasn’t particularly strapped for cash, having inherited Louis senior’s estates in trust for her son as well as this house and grounds in her own right. 

Anne hesitated. “I need to get it up and running,” she said neutrally. “You know how it is.”

Athos didn’t press the point, but he sensed there was something there left unsaid and he wondered about it. But he’d been charged with finding out about something else entirely, so he changed the subject.

“Aramis mentioned you think the place might be haunted?”

Anne let a glass slip back into the washing up bowl and cursed under her breath. She shook suds off her arm, and gave Athos a guarded look. “What did he say?”

“He’s concerned about you,” Athos said, handing her a tea-towel. “He doesn’t like to think of you being scared by something.”

She sighed. “He thinks I’m imagining things.”

“What kind of things?”

Anne gave him a considering look, then seemed to decide she could trust him not to ridicule her.

“I’ve heard people moving about, in rooms that should be empty. I’ve heard – other things. Voices, a child crying. It wasn’t Louis.” She shuddered. “It’s a feeling, more than anything. A feeling that I’m not alone. The impression that there’s someone following me down the corridors, just behind me, but if I turn round there’s no one there.”

“Sounds creepy.”

“Do you believe in ghosts Athos?”

“Somebody once told me it’s not whether you believe in ghosts that matters, but whether they believe in you.” He’d meant it as a joke, but somehow it came out sounding less than reassuring. “She also thought that I might be able to sense things,” Athos added slowly.

“And do you? Here, I mean?”

“Not so far. But then, I’ve only just arrived.” He smiled. “I’ll let you know if anything goes bump in the night.”

They both laughed, but as Athos left the kitchen he wondered whether it was a good idea to deliberately open himself to whatever might be present in the house. None of the experiences he’d had to date had been consciously sought, and more than one had been frankly terrifying. If there was something bad here, letting it know he could hear it might not be sensible. On the other hand, he knew what it was like to experience something and not be believed. If he could help Anne, then he would.

\--

Porthos followed Aramis and Buckingham out of the kitchen door, through the old scullery that was presently being used to store boxes of bathroom tiles, and out into the grounds. The generator was located to the side of the house in a fibre-glass enclosure, and Porthos was surprised to find it was a relatively modern machine. Given the power outages he’d been expecting something from the dark ages.

“I can’t figure out what’s wrong with it,” Aramis grumbled, checking the fuses and resetting the breaker. “Keeps tripping out. We’ve tallied everything electrical in the house and it shouldn’t be overloading. The cables have all been checked and triple checked. There’s no reason for it.”

“Always goes at night, too,” Buckingham added. “Resetting this thing in the dark’s a bitch.”

“Not scared are you?” Aramis asked innocently. 

“Scared? Nothing scares me.” 

Porthos rolled his eyes at their posturing and stepped outside again. He was the only one who hadn’t brought a torch along, and he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. There were faint lights visible in the house, wavering candle flames and moving torch beams. Something swooped around his head and he ducked, before realising it was just a bat.

Porthos wandered round to the front of the house, and was trying to pick out the room he and Athos had been given when someone restarted the generator and the house lit up like a theatre, silhouetting figures against several of the windows.

Suddenly an eldritch scream split the night and Porthos jumped, staring round wildly into the darkness. The lighting up of the house had ruined his night-vision, but it had sounded like it was right behind him.

A movement to the side made him whirl round, but it was only Aramis and Buckingham coming to look for him.

“Did you hear that?” Porthos demanded.

“Just a barn owl,” said Aramis. “There’s quite a few of them out here. I think they might be nesting in the roof somewhere.”

Porthos cleared his throat, feeling rather silly. “I thought someone was being murdered.”

Aramis laughed, and clapped him commiseratingly on the shoulder. “You wait till the foxes get going as well. It sounds like a regular chamber of horrors out here some nights.”

\--

Athos had gone up to their room, moving around to the light of a candle in a saucer. He stood at the uncurtained window and was peering out into the darkness as the power came back on. 

Light spilled out into the garden, and he picked out a group of figures standing in front of the house. He was fairly sure that one was Porthos, but after a moment they disappeared from view and not long afterwards Porthos came upstairs.

“Who was with you out there?” Athos asked curiously, having counted four figures. 

“Aramis and Buckingham.”

“Who else?”

“No one?”

Athos looked puzzled. “I saw you through the window. It looked like there were four of you out there. I thought maybe Gavin had joined you.”

“No? Just the three of us. Must have been a trick of the light. A shadow, maybe.”

“Mmmn.” Athos looked unconvinced. “Maybe.”

“Here, guess what I just saw?” Porthos said, moving on to what he considered more interesting matters.

“A werewolf?”

Porthos rolled his eyes. “Daft git. No, we all came back in right, and Aramis went to talk to Jensen and Laura in the lounge and Buckingham went upstairs and I went to get my phone out of my coat in the kitchen, so I was a bit behind him, but not that much. And – well, his room’s opposite ours right?”

“So?”

“Totally not the one he went into,” Porthos announced.

“Anne’s?” Athos guessed, with a slightly heavy heart. It seemed like Aramis’ fears were justified. But Porthos had a surprise for him.

“Nope. She’s the other side of the stairs. I’m fairly sure it was Candice’s room.”

“Candice?” Athos considered. “She did seem to be buttering him up at supper.”

“A man likes a bit of flattery,” Porthos agreed with a grin, as they climbed into bed together. “Buckingham more than most, I’d say. What do you make of him?” 

Athos hesitated. “It’ll sound cynical.”

“But?”

“In my experience, anyone who talks that much about themselves is hiding something.”

“Porthos laughed. “You’re right.”

“I am?”

“You do sound cynical.”

“But you love me anyway, right?”

Porthos rolled over and pinned him to the mattress. “Every last cynical inch of you.”

By the time they’d exhausted what energy remained after an afternoon’s hard labour, the moonlight was flooding in through the uncurtained windows, and Athos snuggled into Porthos’ side. There was something both comforting and calming about his warm and solid presence beside him.

Porthos draped an arm around him. “Will you be okay tonight?” 

Athos looked up at him enquiringly.

“I mean – sleeping in a strange bed and all.”

“Actually, it might help,” Athos mused. “I don’t associate this one with lying awake for hours.”

“That’s good.” Porthos kissed him on the forehead, making Athos smile.

“Also I’m fucking knackered.”

“There is that.” Porthos yawned. “We don’t have to start work at sparrow-fart do we? Technically I’m on holiday.

“A working holiday.”

“Remind me why I agreed to this again?”

“Because you wanted a change of scene, because you’re a good friend, and because shit’s clearly going down and you’re hugely nosy.”

Porthos grinned. “You know me so well.”

\--

As he’d hoped, for once Athos managed to drift off in a reasonable space of time, but whether it was his subconscious or something _other_ , some influence of the house itself, his sleep was not destined to be restful.

Dreaming, he found himself standing on a dark and unfamiliar street. There were old-fashioned lamp-posts stretching off to either side of him, but the faint orange glow they threw only served to make the shadows darker. 

As he looked about, searching in vain for a recognised landmark, he slowly realised the lamps were not in rows as he’d first thought, but arrayed in a circle about him. As soon as this realisation dawned, he saw too they were not posts but robed figures, standing in menacing silence. 

He tried to call out, but his voice would not come and he could achieve nothing more than a hoarse croak. Somehow the people, without seeming to move, were now closer. This had the unnerving effect of letting him see they were not just shadowed but literally faceless. 

Despite the lack of eyes there was no question they were watching him, and between one beat and another they were closer still.

Athos woke in a sweat just before the nearest one touched him, and had to struggle out of bed, pacing the room until all remnants of the creeping horror had finally fallen away.

\--


	2. Chapter 2

When they all straggled down to breakfast the next morning Anne seemed distracted, and as they were dispersing afterwards to their various tasks Athos hung back to speak with her, wondering if she'd had the same disturbed night he had.

"Is everything alright?"

"You'll think I'm daft."

"I won't, I promise."

Anne sighed, then seemed to come to a decision. To his surprise, she beckoned him out into the hallway where a vase of dead flowers was displayed on a sideboard.

"I only put those out yesterday afternoon," she explained in response to his puzzled look. "They were quite fresh when I went up to bed last night. How do you explain that?"

Athos reached out and touched one of the flowers. The petals crumbled under his fingers. 

"Do you think something got added to the vase water by accident?"

"I poured it from the tap myself. And we're on mains, thank God, or I'd be worrying we'd all been poisoned." 

"How strange." Athos tilted his head, sensing more behind her unease. “You think it’s – what? Not quite natural?”

“It’s not the first time it’s happened. Fruit too. It rots. Far quicker than it should. Especially given how cold the bloody house is.”

“Could be something in the fabric of the place,” Athos suggested, wondering whether dry rot or creeping damp was likely to affect objects inside a building. Having been nominated to investigate the supernatural element, he found his instinct was still to look for the logical, tangible answers first. 

“You haven’t noticed anything?” Anne asked, half-hopefully. “Anything – odd, I mean?”

Athos thought back to the shadowy fourth figure he’d seen from the window, and his own bad dreams, but there was nothing concrete there, nothing worth worrying her over. He thought it was a pity in a way that Aramis had primed him to the possibility of ghostly goings-on. Now he couldn’t be sure what he was just imagining. 

“Nothing I’d be worried about,” he said cheerfully. “I’m sure once we get this place brightened up it’ll feel a lot happier.”

“I hope so,” Anne said dubiously. She looked on the brink of saying something else, but Aramis came down the stairs at that point, and she broke off. “I’ll see you later.”

“Everything alright?” Aramis asked, joining Athos in the hall. 

“As far as I can tell.” Athos gave him a non-committal smile, thinking privately that most of the problems in this house were all too human.

They walked together through the house, to continue prising up the old ballroom carpet. The strips from yesterday lay heaped in a corner like a slumped and monstrous old beast, giving off a vague smell of wet dog.

Athos set to work, wincing slightly as the blisters he’d managed to acquire the day before made themselves known as soon as he picked up the scraper.

“Don’t suppose you want to swap?” he called. Aramis was supposed to be pulling up the old carpet as Athos followed behind scraping the remainder off the tiles, although in actual fact he was staring out the window at something. 

Glad of an excuse to defer working, Athos joined him. Walking the path that circled the house was Candice, hand in hand with Louis who was determinedly toddling along beside her on little chubby legs.

“Do you think he’s mine?” Aramis sighed wistfully.

“Mmmn. The moustache is a dead giveaway.”

Aramis looked round at him, then spluttered with laughter. “Idiot.”

Athos smiled. “Does it matter? In the end? If you want to be with each other – he’ll be your son anyway, won’t he? One way or the other?”

“If, being the operative word,” Aramis said gloomily, losing his brief moment of good humour. “I thought she loved me, but now I’m not so sure. If I could just be certain about Louis – it would give me an advantage, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think children should be used as pawns, however good the intentions behind it,” Athos said carefully. “If she wants you then she wants you, if she doesn’t – in the end, that’s her decision to make. But yes, you deserve to know, I’m not saying otherwise.”

“I wish he’d never come here,” Aramis muttered. There was no need for Athos to ask who _he_ was. 

“Are they...?” Athos let the question fall half-formed, feeling it was none of his business, but Aramis shrugged.

“Honestly, I don’t know. She’s been more distant, since he arrived. But I have no proof they’re actually – you know. But what else could he be after? Why help out so much, it’s not as if he’s _her_ relation.”

“Out of the goodness of his heart?” Athos suggested innocently.

Aramis didn’t dignify that with a reply, but his expression was eloquent. 

\--

Porthos had been making his way out the front to resume his work on the windows when he heard raised voices in the study. A woman’s voice, its identity muffled by the panelled walls, followed by what was unmistakeably Buckingham’s, loud and angry.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut!”

Porthos hesitated, concerned by the implied threat and wondering whether he should intervene, but then the door burst open and Buckingham strode out. He looked flustered to see Porthos standing there, and hastily resumed his mask of cheerful bonhomie.

“Porthos! Just the man. We’ve had a delivery of gravel that needs raking out across the drive, fancy making a start?” He herded Porthos out of the front door before Porthos could see who he’d been talking to.

Putting it out of his mind for the moment, Porthos started work with a will, spreading the gravel into the bare patches of the turning circle at the top of the drive. He was vaguely aware of Gavin chopping logs somewhere away behind the toolshed, and of Buckingham continuing the work of sanding and painting the windowsills.

He worked hard all morning, and by midday Porthos was wondering if they’d get a decent meal or if it would just be sandwiches. Perhaps they’d be expected to make their own, although nobody had said as much. Presumably there’d be some sort of rota, Buckingham seemed to have taken charge of everything else. 

His nose felt full of gravel dust and his back was starting to ache after a morning bent over the rake, and Porthos had the belated thought that he should have volunteered to make lunch himself, then he could have escaped earlier. As it was, he didn’t want to be the first to down tools or look like he was shirking. 

At this point Buckingham went indoors, and Porthos hoped it was a sign that lunch might be imminent. 

A couple of minutes passed and Porthos was just wondering whether to follow him in when Buckingham reappeared again, and Porthos assumed gloomily that he’d just nipped to the toilet instead. Rather than resuming work though, Buckingham paused on the doorstep and turned back towards the door, apparently testing the bell-pull.

It wasn’t clear what happened next, but there was a crashing noise from above as something heavy tore through the climbing rose on its way towards the ground.

Startled, Buckingham stepped back and looked up, and the stone owl hit him right between the eyes.

Porthos stared in shock at the motionless body sprawled across the steps. Somewhere above a window was pushed up, and someone looked out – and screamed.

The noise galvanised Porthos into movement, and scanning the roof warily for signs of other loose masonry, he ran across to where Buckingham lay.

It was painfully obvious that he was quite dead. Porthos checked anyway, then phoned for an ambulance, explaining who he was, and that there’d be no need for blue lights.

By this time Anne had rushed outside, closely followed by Athos and Aramis who’d heard her frantic calls as she ran through the house. 

“Oh my God – is he ?”

“Dead, I’m afraid,” Porthos confirmed. “I’m sorry.”

“I saw something fall past the window,” Anne said numbly, looking at the owl. “How in God’s name did it manage to hit him?”

“He was standing on the doorstep,” said Porthos. “Unlucky, I guess. Although the odds...” He looked back up at the roofline, and frowned. “How do you get onto the roof?” he demanded.

“There’s a door in the top corridor,” Aramis told him distractedly, trying to turn Anne away from the terrible sight lying before them.

Porthos headed indoors, but caught Athos’ arm as he went. “Don’t let anybody touch anything,” he said in an undertone.

“You don’t think it’s - ?” Athos began, startled, but Porthos had gone.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Porthos was puffing slightly by the time he reached the third floor. Most of the rooms up here were still empty, but enough people had tramped through over the last few days that there was no hope of tracing footprints in the dust.

Opening doors, halfway along Porthos found a narrow flight of steps leading upwards. He climbed them cautiously – he didn’t think there was a danger of being attacked from above, but it didn’t hurt to be careful.

At the top a door led out onto the roof. Porthos pulled his shirt sleeve down over his hand to work the handle, and frowned when it opened easily. Surely it should have been locked.

Outside the wind was stronger than it had been at ground level, but Porthos judged it still wasn’t anywhere near hard enough to be structurally damaging. The roof was formed from a collection of pitched tiles, rainwater gullies and chimney stacks, all surrounded by a stone parapet. The ornamental owl that had taken its last fatal flight had been mounted on the latter.

Porthos made his way to the edge with wary haste. There were a surprising number of places to hide up here, and he couldn’t be entirely sure he was alone.

The spot where the owl had rested was obvious, a pad of broken and crumbling mortar all that remained. Porthos leaned over and looked down. A sea of anxious faces looked back up at him, and he did a swift headcount. Everyone was there now, the rest having been drawn outside by the commotion. Porthos was glad to see they were giving the body a wide berth, Athos standing discreetly between it and the knot of shocked spectators.

He drew back and examined the mortar, both the pad and the chips lying on the roof. And then he took out his phone, and made another call.

\--

A moment after Porthos had run inside Buckingham’s two students had appeared in the doorway. As the terrible events were being explained to them, Candice appeared around the side of the house with Louis in tow, and screamed.

“Take Louis inside,” Anne ordered brusquely. “He mustn’t see this.”

Candice however took no notice, and looked like she was quite capable of throwing herself on the body. Jensen fielded her firmly and lead her away sobbing, and Laura offered to take Louis up to his room and stay with him.

By this time Gavin had joined them as well, and he stared down at the corpse then up at the roof.

“Bloody hell. What are the chances?”

A few minutes later Porthos rejoined them and was met by a clamour of voices.

“Porthos what’s going on, we should take him indoors, or at least cover him up,” Anne begged. “Athos won’t let us touch him, he said it was your instruction. What’s happening?”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” said Porthos heavily, raising his voice slightly to be heard by all. “But I have reason to believe this wasn’t an accident. The police are on their way, and if the ambulance arrives first we must ask them to wait.”

“What are you talking about?” Aramis stepped forward indignantly. “Surely it was just unlucky chance that he was standing there when it fell? This place is coming apart at the seams, you’ve seen that.”

“It didn’t fall on its own,” Porthos told him grimly. “Somebody’s been chiselling away at the mortar. That wasn’t just weather damage up there, there were fresh stone chips. This was deliberate.”

A shocked silence met his words. 

“But – you’re not saying he was murdered?” Aramis protested. “How? Who could guarantee he’d be standing underneath at the moment it fell? Even if it was deliberate vandalism, it still must have been random luck that it was Luke who was hit?”

Porthos fixed him with a meaningful gaze. “Not,” he said, “if it was pushed.”

The silence was shorter this time, then everyone broke out at once in a babble of voices. Candice screamed again, and Anne turned on her.

“Be quiet,” she ordered, and although her voice was softer than Porthos’, somehow everyone immediately shut up. “Go inside, all of you,” she instructed. “Use the side door. Wait for the police.”

“Thank you,” Porthos said, when the rest had done as she asked, and it was just the four of them left with the body.

“Do you really think it was deliberate?” Anne asked, voice trembling but controlled.

“Yes. I’m sorry, I do.” 

“But who’d want to kill him?”

“That’s what we’ll need to find out. Have you any ideas? Anyone who hated him enough?”

Anne shook her head. “He was a sweet man. I can’t imagine. Oh this is awful.” Still looking shocked, she made her way after the others. 

Aramis hung back. “I suppose I’ll be at the top of your suspect list,” he sighed.

“Did you kill him?” Porthos asked bluntly.

“For the record – no.”

“Got nothing to worry about then, have you?” Porthos gave him a grim smile. “I’d go after her, if I were you.”

Aramis looked like he’d have said more, but gave a short nod and followed Anne indoors.

“You don’t think he could really have done it, do you?” Athos asked in a low voice. 

“Wasn’t he with you?”

“No.” Athos shook his head, looking troubled. “He went off about half an hour ago, said he was going to see to lunch. But he’s a vicar, he’s not going to kill someone is he?”

“In my experience, anyone’s capable if pushed far enough. And Aramis is ex-military don’t forget. But no, I don’t really suspect him. My main problem is working out who _could_ have done it. I didn’t pass anyone on the stairs, and most people arrived too quickly to have got down from the roof in time.”

“That narrows down the list though, surely?”

“Who does it leave? Who turned up later, after I’d gone up?”

“Candice? She’d have had to leave Louis somewhere and fetch him again, which might account for the delay. But why would she want to kill Luke?”

“Forget motive for the minute. Concentrate on opportunity. Who else?”

Athos considered. “Gavin. He came out of the woods though, I can’t see that he’d have been able to circle round and double back in the time available. Jensen and Laura. They arrived together, said they’d heard the shouting and come to see what the matter was, but apparently they hadn’t been together when they heard it.”

Vehicles could be heard approaching up the drive by now, and an ambulance arrived followed by two police cars. D’Artagnan got out of the first one and walked over to them.

“Thought you were supposed to be on holiday sir?”

“Very funny.” Porthos turned to Athos and nodded towards the house. “You’d better join the others. Keep your ears open, eh?” He sighed. “I’ve got a feeling this is going to be complicated.”

\--

The body had been taken away, and the roof thoroughly examined. Porthos was about to start the laborious process of questioning the waiting group when something made him walk back out to the front door. Something had been bothering him, and he’d finally worked out what it was. 

Buckingham had been working all morning on the windows, hadn’t touched the front door at all. What had he been doing lingering on the step to make himself such a good target? Surely if someone had been hiding on the roof all morning waiting for him to pass in or out their absence would have been noted? But then, there was such a lot to do most people had been working separately. Or, perhaps someone had seen him go inside and seized their chance to run up to the roof assuming he’d come out again?

Porthos paced back and forth across the wide porch steps, toying with the idea of some kind of pressure pad that had triggered the falling owl, before discounting it as too fanciful.

What _had_ Buckingham been doing?

Porthos pictured the man coming out of the house. He’d turned back towards the door. Porthos stood roughly where he thought he’d been, and looked.

Half-hidden by the rose and ivy was a ceramic knob with ‘Pull’ painted on it in faded letters. The doorbell.

Experimentally, and wary of falling ornaments, Porthos tugged it. To his slight alarm it came right out in his hand. 

Porthos looked at it blankly, wondering if he’d just broken it. Slotted it back into its hole, and frowned. Stepping back again to look up at the roof, his feet became tangled in a length of wire and he nearly tripped.

His first instinct was to kick it absently out of the way, then he stopped dead. He’d raked fresh gravel over this section that morning. He knew categorically that the wire hadn’t been there then. Which meant it had appeared since. 

He gathered it up. His first thought was that the falling owl had ripped out some of the trellis wire, but this looked too new. There was a lot of it, and by the time he’d pulled the rest from the flowerbed Porthos reckoned that stretched out to its full extent it would be enough to reach the roof.

The significance of this hit him hard. If the wire had been rigged from the bell-pull up to the owl, and the owl had been dislodged previously, so that the merest tug would send it plummeting earthwards – Buckingham had sealed his own death warrant. And whoever had rigged it up didn’t have to have run up or down from the roof at all.

\--

Porthos and d’Artagnan took possession of a study off the main hallway. They’d waited here once before, when investigating the murder of the Marquis de Feron only to see from the window the fugitive Lucien Grimaud fleeing down the drive.

Today it was lighter and less cluttered, but the original desk and chairs were still present, and Porthos decided it would be perfect for the interviews. He went out to where they were all gathered in the kitchen, and most of them glared at him accusingly, as if all this was his fault.

“Anne, can we speak with you first please?”

“I want to be present,” Aramis said immediately, standing up and looking protective.

“I’m sorry, that won’t be appropriate,” Porthos said firmly.

“I want Athos there,” Anne broke in, to everyone’s surprise including Athos. “I’m allowed a solicitor present, correct?”

“Well – yes, if you feel you need one,” Porthos conceded. “If they’re acting under your formal instruction,” he added with a certain amount of heavy irony, given he was fairly sure that Athos wasn’t.

Anne gave Athos a look of mute pleading, and he gave a slight nod. “Of course.” He followed them into the study, wondering if this was advisable. If Anne was guilty she wouldn’t be the first murderer he’d defended, but it would be sure to annoy Porthos. Particularly if he got her off. 

Still, for now he would act on the assumption of innocence, and had to concede he’d mainly agreed to this out of curiosity. He liked knowing what was being discussed behind closed doors.

“How long have you known Mr Buckingham?” Porthos asked, once Anne was settled in front of the desk, with Athos to her side.

“Not long at all. He arrived at the door one day, said he was looking for Louis – my late husband – and that he was a cousin. He’d been overseas – in America, he said – hadn’t heard of Louis’ death. He offered me help in setting up this venture, and I accepted.”

Porthos smiled, and nodded apologetically. “You appreciate we have to be thorough. How did he get on with your other friends?”

“You mean Aramis, I suppose,” Anne snorted. “They couldn’t stand each other. I’m not so blind that I couldn’t see that.”

“Must have been very flattering. Having two men competing for your attention.”

Anne gave him a sharp look. “I’m sure you would think that.”

Porthos waited for her to elaborate, but she remained tight-lipped. He was curious. She’d seemed to object to the suggestion she was playing the two men off against each other to flatter her own ego, but was reluctant to advance an alternative explanation.

“Two final questions, and I’ll be asking everyone this. Where were you when Buckingham was killed, and can you think of anyone who might have wanted him dead?”

“I was painting the dining room,” said Anne, wryly displaying hands splattered with flecks of eau de nil. “And no. I can’t. This is just awful. Are you sure it wasn’t just an accident? Not that I want my house to have been responsible, and I’m sure you’ll tell me that none of you are insured to be working on it like this. But the alternative seems – grotesque.”

“The evidence suggests it was deliberate,” Porthos said grimly. “How long has Candice been with you?” he added, as Anne was about to rise from her chair.

She sat down again abruptly. “About six months. Why do you ask?”

“How well did _she_ get on with Buckingham?”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“Oh, I will. I just wondered. She seems – a little spiky, at times? Bit of a different character when it came to him. But obviously, I knew them both less than a day.”

Anne looked at him, her mouth a thin line. “She has something of an attitude. But on the other hand I needed a live-in nanny at short notice, and few people are willing to be stuck out here in the sticks.”

“Can’t get the staff eh?” Porthos said with a razor-edged sympathy. “Ungrateful, I expect.”

“Quite,” said Anne coldly. “May I go?”

“For now. Athos, would you stay? May as well do you next, as you’re here.”

Athos took Anne’s seat in front of the table and gave Porthos a look of mild rebuke. “Your class bias is showing,” he murmured. “I could make a lot out of that, in a courtroom.”

Porthos glared at him. “Since when do you bloody work for her, anyway?” 

“Since about ten minutes ago, apparently.” Athos returned his scowl with an amused smile. “So, am I officially a suspect as well?”

“Oh don’t be an arse,” Porthos grumbled. “But I’ve got to treat you the same as everyone else, you know I have.”

“I know,” Athos agreed peaceably. “For the record, I was lifting carpet in the ballroom. And that’s not a euphemism.” 

Porthos heard d’Artagnan stifle a splutter of laughter behind him and gave Athos a quelling look. “Behave. You said Aramis was with you, up to a certain point?”

“Yes, he’d gone off to prepare lunch about half an hour before it happened. There was lunch alright, but nothing that would have taken all that long. He could easily have snuck up to the roof and pushed the thing off I suppose. Technically speaking.”

Porthos hesitated. He looked at d’Artagnan, who shrugged, suspecting that Porthos would probably end up confiding in Athos regardless.

“We’ve found evidence to suggest that it was rigged to fall,” Porthos said slowly. “There was a wire possibly connecting it to the bell-pull. Buckingham tried it out – and the thing landed on him. We were assuming that whoever did it pushed the thing off. That they needed to get down from the roof afterwards, and that it had to be one of the people who arrived last on the drive. But this takes that out of it.” Porthos looked at him a little helplessly. “It could be literally anyone in this house.”

“Apart from you.” 

Porthos gave him a grim smile. “And if we’re being technical about it, I can’t prove that. But yeah. It wasn’t me.”

“And it wasn’t me. So if I know I didn’t do it, and you know you didn’t do it, and we trust each other enough to believe that - ” 

“Plus neither of us had a reason to kill him.”

“Exactly. Who does that leave? Are you seriously considering Aramis as a suspect?”

Porthos looked unhappy. “I don’t want to, but you can’t escape the fact he had the best motive.”

“He’s been waiting patiently for Anne for months – years. I don’t see him turning suddenly murderously jealous now, do you?”

“Maybe that was it though – he thought he was about to live happily ever after when along comes Mr Charisma. All that frustrated waiting might have come to the boil.”

“Alright, so Aramis might have hit him, or, I don’t know, shot him or run him over or something,” Athos argued. “A crime of passion I could just about believe. But to rig up something as calculating as you describe, to kill the man in cold blood? I don’t see it.”

Porthos nodded slowly. “I’m inclined to agree with you. I’ll speak to him next. Who else then? Candice and Anne might have just about got the same motive from opposite ends. Suppose Candice was sleeping with Luke but had to watch him openly pursuing Anne. And Anne was being courted by him, maybe she discovered he was banging the nanny. Wouldn’t have taken a lot of physical strength to kill like this, and women often show a preference for hands-off murder techniques. _And_ they’ve both been resident here the longest, would’ve been familiar with the doorbell mechanism and the layout of the roof.”

“They could’ve been in it together,” Athos remarked. “If they found out he was playing both of them, maybe it was revenge.”

“I like it!” Porthos sat up, but Athos was shaking his head.

“You’re forgetting how upset they both were by his death.”

“Could be acting,” Porthos grumbled. “Anyway it was your theory.”

“Just working out possibilities in my head,” Athos smiled. “Who else is there? I don’t see the others having that much of a connection to the man.”

“Luke brought Jensen and Laura here,” Porthos reminded him. “There might be a grudge there somewhere that we don’t know about.” 

“Gavin would have the technical ability to rig up a trap like that, and no-one would have looked twice at him fiddling about on the outside of the house. In fact he was working on the trellis when we arrived. But I don’t see a motive.”

Porthos groaned. “We’re just going round in circles. It could be any of ‘em.”

Athos got to his feet. “I’ll send Aramis in.”

“Thanks. Any chance you could rustle me up some lunch as well?” Porthos looked pleading, and Athos smiled. 

“I’ll see what I can do”

\--

Aramis and Porthos sat facing each other a little awkwardly. It had crossed Porthos’ mind that he should more properly hand this investigation off to a colleague, but he was determined to see it through. He felt affronted that someone had committed murder right under his nose, and also suspected that someone coming in from outside might take one look at the circumstances and have Aramis banged up, case closed.

There was still an uncomfortable possibility he’d have to do just that, but he would have to be thoroughly convinced of the man’s guilt first. 

“How well did you know the deceased?”

Aramis shrugged, looking thoroughly irritated by the whole affair. Porthos sensed he was more shaken that he was letting on. To wish a man dead only to see it happen had to convey its own level of guilt, deserved or not. At least, Porthos hoped that was all it was.

“He turned up a few weeks ago. Anne had never mentioned him before, I don’t think she knew much about him either.”

“And your relationship with Mrs Bourbon is - ?”

Aramis shifted uncomfortably in his chair, glancing at d’Artagnan who was sitting unobtrusively in a corner, taking notes.

“You know what it is,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry, in the circumstances I have to ask you to confirm. For the record.”

“I don’t see how it’s relevant.”

“Hopefully it won’t be.” Porthos took pity on him, seeing a possible way out. “Look, I can promise that nothing needs to become public if it turns out to have no bearing on the case.”

Aramis relented. “We are – in a relationship. Have been, for - ” he hesitated. “Some years.”

“Since before her late husband passed away?”

“Christ, you’re not going to try and pin that one on me as well are you?”

Porthos tactfully moved on. “How was it going? Your relationship? Good?”

Aramis hesitated. “I’ve asked her to marry me,” he admitted. “She’s thinking about it.”

“But you had no reason to suppose she would turn you down? Until Mr Buckingham came along?”

Aramis looked startled. “Look, fine, I couldn’t stand the guy. He clearly had designs on her. But I didn’t kill him! I mean – that would’ve been fairly stupid given that I’d immediately look like the main suspect, and I hardly think Anne would be more likely to marry me if she thought I was a murderer.”

“Does she? Suspect you?”

Aramis frowned, caught off guard by the question. He considered, and with something like surprised relief realised the answer was no. 

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted Buckingham dead?”

Aramis shook his head slowly. “He was a relative stranger. The only people who knew him before he came here were Laura and Jensen, but they’re practically children still, I hardly see them committing murder.”

“We have to explore all possibilities. Where were you, at the time of Buckingham’s death?”

“In the kitchen. I was seeing to lunch – soup and sandwiches. I hope you don’t expect me to produce it as evidence, we ate it while we were waiting for you.”

Porthos’ stomach gave a doleful rumble, and he sighed.

\--

Next up was Laura, who sidled in shyly and sat staring at her hands. It was a distinct contrast to the bubbly personality she’d displayed up to now, and Porthos wondered if it was only the shock of sudden death that had brought about the change.

“Laura – Miles is it?” She nodded. “How long had you known Mr Buckingham?”

“Nearly three years. He was my tutor.”

“And how would you describe your relationship with him?”

“Good – I guess?” Laura said hesitantly, looking, Porthos thought, rather desperate.

“Laura, this morning I heard someone arguing with him. A woman. I’m trying to find out who it was.”

Laura’s gaze darted frantically around the room, as if looking for a way out.

“I didn’t kill him!”

“Was it you in the study this morning?”

“Yes.” She admitted it in a tiny voice, seeming to shrink in her seat.

“What were you arguing about?” Porthos remembered the fragment he’d overheard, and softened his tone. “Did he threaten you?”

“No. Not really?” Laura looked surprised, and Porthos wondered if he’d misheard.

“He said something along the lines of keep your mouth shut – or else?”

“Oh. Yes.” Laura stared at her hands again. “I’d found something out, you see.”

“About him?”

“Yes. He wasn’t who he said he was. At least – he wasn’t qualified. My sister, you see, has just started at the university he claimed to have graduated from. I asked her to look up his dissertation – I figured it’d look good you know, showing an interest and all that, if I could say I’d read it. Except she couldn’t find it. It wasn’t on record. And neither was he. I thought maybe I’d got the year wrong, so she looked him up rather than the title. There was no record of anyone with that name having even taken that course, let along graduated from it.”

“You confronted him with this?”

Laura nodded miserably. “I was afraid that it would reflect badly on us. That maybe we’d all have our coursework disqualified or something, if he wasn’t capable of properly marking it. That we’d have wasted months of hard work.”

“How did he take it?”

“How do you think? Told me to keep my mouth shut. Said if anyone found out and he was kicked out that he’d make sure I’d lose out too, just as I’d feared.”

“Did Jensen know about this?”

“Yes, I told him as soon as I found out. He just thought it was funny. Said good luck to him.” She looked disapproving. “He didn’t think I should say anything.”

“Alright, thank you. That’s all for now. Send Jensen in next, would you?”

\--

In fact when the door opened next it was Gavin who came in, explaining that Jensen had wandered off somewhere. Laura had gone to look for him, but in the meantime Athos had apparently suggested he go in first, to avoid wasting time.

Porthos nodded, wondering why nobody ever bloody stayed where they were told to. 

“Can I ask – how did you end up working here?” He didn’t remember seeing Gavin around the village, and the fact he lived-in suggested he wasn’t local.

“I visited the place as a child. I’d always wanted to come back, so when I was looking for work I turned up on spec. Mrs Bourbon was kind enough to take me on.”

“Had you ever met Mr Buckingham before you came here?”

“No sir.”

“How did you get on?”

Gavin shrugged. “He didn’t take much notice of me to be honest. He was polite, but – more of an eye for the women, if you see what I mean.”

“Could you expand on that?”

Gavin looked embarrassed. “Well he obviously had the hots for Anne – Mrs Bourbon. And I’m fairly sure he was banging Candice. And he used to eye up Laura quite a lot too, although I’m not sure she noticed. Although maybe she did, she’s been a bit frosty to him the last few days.”

“You think they might have had a falling out?” Porthos asked mildly.

Gavin looked alarmed. “Not like that!” I mean – she wouldn’t have killed him.” He looked confused. “Would she?”

“People surprise you,” Porthos said dryly. “Is there anything else you think we should know? Any tensions in the house, any arguments you might’ve overheard perhaps?”

Gavin shook his head. “Sorry. I’ve been mostly working outside. And sleeping in the apartment over the garage, so I wasn’t in the house overnight.”

“Ever been up to the roof?”

“Once. I was unclogging the gutters.”

“Did any of the masonry strike you as unsafe?”

“Not particularly. Certainly not on the brink of collapse, otherwise I’d’ve done something about it.” Gavin looked curious. “Do you think it might’ve been an accident after all then?”

“No,” said Porthos shortly. “But I’m wondering how the murderer got the idea. Ever noticed anyone else up the roof? Maybe seen someone up there when you were working in the grounds?”

“Only one person, but I don’t think that’ll help much.”

“Who?” Porthos asked eagerly. 

“Well – it was Buckingham. Couple of days ago.”

“Oh.” Porthos subsided. “Well, thank you Mr - ” he hesitated. “I don’t actually know your surname?”

“Bridger.”

“Thank you Mr Bridger. That will be all for now.”

When he’d gone, Porthos turned to d’Artagnan. “What do you reckon? Buckingham made a pass at Laura and she topped him?”

“Wouldn’t she’ve been more likely to – I don’t know. Just brain him with the coal scuttle or something?”

“Depends what he’d done,” said Porthos darkly. “Some things can fester. Revenge can be cold and meticulously planned.”

“We’d better speak to her again.”

“Let’s see the rest first. Who’ve we got left?”

“Jensen, assuming he hasn’t actually obligingly done an incriminating runner, and Candice the nanny.”

“Right.” Porthos nodded. “Let’s - ”

There was a knock at the door and Athos came in, bearing a tray with two plates of sandwiches and mugs of tea for them both.

“Oh God you’re a life-saver,” Porthos exclaimed. 

“How’s it going?”

“The police are officially baffled,” Porthos reported, mouth already full of sandwich. “I suppose there’s always the possibility it was a really bizarre suicide.”

“Seriously?”

“No, not really, but it’s about as plausible as anything else right now,” Porthos complained. “What makes people kill? Love, hate, money.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “We seem to have the first two covered, what about the third? Who stands to gain with Buckingham dead? Jensen’s not his long-lost son or something stupid, is he?”

“Elodie’s tracing Buckingham’s family right now,” d’Artagnan reported. “We should know by tomorrow morning at the latest who inherits.”

“Talking of Jensen, has he turned up yet?” Porthos asked, and Athos shook his head.

“He said he was going to the loo but never came back. Laura reports that he’s not in his room.”

“Great.” Porthos sighed. “Guilty, or just hiding something unrelated? People are so complicated, that’s the problem. Everyone’s up to something, and it just distorts the picture unnecessarily. Take Anne for instance. I’m sure she’s keeping something back, I just don’t know if it’s relevant.”

He looked assessingly at Athos. “She seems to have taken you into her confidence. Do you think you can find out what it is she’s hiding?”

“I can try. The trouble is, if I really am now acting for her, it’ll be privileged information. I can’t necessarily tell you what she says.”

Porthos considered. “Alright. Look, I trust your judgement. If you feel what she says has a bearing on the case – convince her to tell me, or to let you do it. If it hasn’t, then I don’t care anyway.”

“Alright. I’ll try.”

“Good man. Can you send Candice in next? And maybe have a scout round, see if you can scare up Jensen.”

“Will do.” Athos left the room as Porthos hastily shovelled in another sandwich before his next interview. 

\--

Candice had reddened eyes and a soggy tissue clutched in one hand when she took her seat in the study. Porthos thought that here at least was one person who seemed to be genuinely mourning Buckingham’s death, although he knew from experience that didn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t her who killed him.

“Candice Tiggs? I’m sorry to upset you, but we do need to ask you some questions.”

To his relief she nodded promptly, sniffing back tears. “You’ll catch the bastard won’t you?” 

“We’ll do our best,” Porthos promised. “Do you have any idea who might’ve wanted Mr Buckingham dead?”

She shook her head. “He was a lovely man. He never did anybody any harm. He was going to - ” Candice broke off, eyes widening a little and looking suddenly guilty.

“He was going to what?” Candice remained stubbornly mute. “Had he promised you something?” Porthos prompted gently.

“He was going to take me away,” she blurted, fingers shredding the tissue in her lap. “He said we could go away together, get married. That we could have kids of our own.”

“You were in a relationship with him?”

She nodded, suddenly defiant. “We were in love.”

“But you were keeping it a secret. Why?”

“He said we had to. That it was only for a while. That he was – he was going to get a pay-off, and then everything would be fine.”

“What kind of pay-off?” Porthos frowned. “Was he hoping for money from Mrs Bourbon?”

Candice shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. I don’t think he was scamming her, if that’s what you’re getting at,” she added sharply. “But – I don’t know. He needed to be here, I think. Needed her to trust him.”

Porthos privately suspected Buckingham had been stringing her along while hoping all the time to win the richer prize of Anne and her big house. While he was sure Candice’s adoration had been good for the man’s ego, he found it hard to reconcile the man he’d only briefly known with the domestic desire to settle down with a wife and family.

“Do you think Anne might have found out he was sleeping with you?”

“I never said he was,” Candice objected with dignity, looking embarrassed.

“I saw him going into your room last night,” Porthos explained. There could have been any number of excuses to be found for that, but having been caught out, Candice just shrugged.

“Do you think she killed him then?” Candice asked instead. “What, just ‘cause he was with me? Do me a favour. Ladies like her don’t get their hands dirty. She wanted him dead, she’d’ve got someone else to do it. Like every other job round here she considers beneath her.”

“You don’t like her much, do you?”

Candice sighed. “We got on alright, I suppose. Till he came, really. I had to watch him sucking up to her, and it made me sick.”

“Alright, that’ll be all for now. Thank you.”

When she’d gone, Porthos and d’Artagnan sat round the table, comparing notes. 

“What do you make of it then?” Porthos asked with a sigh. “As far as I can tell, any of them could have done it, and all of them had a motive.”

“Apart from Jensen,” d’Artagnan reminded him “Who’s still not appeared. Should we have a look in his room, do you think?”

They made their way upstairs. Jensen had a bedroom on the first floor at the back, and Porthos wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or not that all his things were still there. It was a messy tip, but it didn’t look like he’d packed and gone. 

“Half of me was hoping he’d done a bunk,” Porthos admitted. “At least we’d have a lead. I suppose he’s just gone into the village or something. Probably gone to the pub for a decent meal.” The sandwiches had filled a hole, but Porthos couldn’t suppress longing thoughts of a decent roast, or a big fragrant pie. 

“Will you stay here tonight sir?” D’Artagnan asked curiously.

“Yes, I think so. It’s handy keeping everyone in one place, and I want to be here when Jensen turns up. You check up on Buckingham’s background, find out who stands to inherit, what his qualifications really are, that kind of thing. I suppose there’s still a chance this was an outside job and it’s nobody here after all, but I have a hard time believing it. What I don’t get yet is how whoever it was ensured it was Buckingham who pulled that bell.”

“You don’t think it was a practical joke gone wrong? That it was never meant to kill, just to frighten someone?”

“Too much effort involved,” Porthos decided. “You don’t chip a solid stone owl off a roof just for a laugh. No, this was designed to be deadly. Somebody killed that poor sod in front of me, and when I find out who, they’ll be sorry.” 

\--

At dinner that night the mood was subdued, with everyone looking sideways at everyone else. Jensen still hadn’t put in an appearance, and Porthos had put out an official alert for him. If he turned up at an airport trying to get home he’d be stopped, but so far there had been no reported sightings of him, either trying to leave the country or back at his university digs. 

There was little inclination to linger downstairs after the meal and Athos and Porthos escaped up to their room with some relief. 

Porthos took the opportunity to share some more of the information he’d gleaned from the interviews, hoping that laying it out for Athos might make it clearer for himself.

“What I don’t get, is how the murderer ensured that Buckingham was the one who was killed?” he sighed. “What if we’re wrong, and he wasn’t the target after all? What if it was meant for Anne? Or someone else, given that she’d be unlikely to ring her own doorbell?”

“Maybe things will look clearer in the morning.” Athos came up behind him and wrapped his arms around Porthos’ chest. “In the meantime, may I suggest I take your mind off the puzzle for a while?”

Porthos turned in his arms, kissing him with a smile. “Seems a bit irreverent, in a house that’s just seen a murder.”

“House this age, it’ll have seen its share of births and deaths,” Athos pointed out. “All part of the fabric.”

“And sex,” Porthos added with a grin. “Think of all the sex it’s seen.”

Walking backwards, Athos drew him over to the bed. “How about we show it a bit more?”

\--

At the same time that Athos and Porthos were getting an early night, up in London Constance was on her way home following a post-work meal with a couple of friends. 

She was halfway between the tube station and home when she first noticed the man following her. It was dark, and raining, and he had a hat tipped down that hid his face from the street-lights, but she felt certain he'd been behind her for some time. 

The further from the main shopping area she got, the fewer pedestrians were around, and it was this that made her aware he was taking the same turns at the same pace. Experimentally she crossed the road to see if she was being paranoid and he would pass on the other side - but he copied the movement, still keeping the same distance between them. 

She wondered what to do. Instinct said walk round the block and head back towards the more populated areas - but she was wet, and tired, and pissed off. Home was closer.

She walked faster, heels clicking a staccato beat on the wet tarmac and praying she didn't slip.

Turning the corner into her road she took a chance and started running as soon as he was out of sight, arriving at the front door to her block of flats breathless and dishevelled but with a feeling of relief.

She hunted in her bag for her keys, automatically at first, then with increasing desperation. They weren't in the front pocket where she habitually kept them for easy access. She couldn't find them in the main compartment, and scrabbled through the scatter of items in increasing desperation, groping in the corners and wondering if she should dump the whole lot out on the step.

He was in sight now, a dark shape in the periphery of her vision, not hurrying but drawing closer.

"Looking for these?"

The voice wasn't what she'd expected, it was educated and calm. Constance span round, pressing her back against the door defensively, but he came no closer, merely looked up at her from the road. Her eyes went to his hand, where he was offering her something. Her keys.

"How did you - ?" she gasped.

"I was standing behind you on the tube. I took them from your bag. You never even noticed me." He inclined his head slightly. "You did eventually. I congratulate you on that, at least. Not everyone does."

"You follow a lot of people do you, you sad wanker?" Constance was trying to judge if she could dart forward and snatch them from his hand without being grabbed herself. But she'd still have to turn her back on him to open the door. She reached behind her and felt for the intercom pad, pressing buzzers at random. If she could get someone in one of the other flats to unlock the outer door, she'd at least have that between them.

"Your name is Constance Bonacieux. You work for Benet and Shaw."

Constance wondered if he'd stolen her ID as well, then with a cold shiver wondered if he'd followed her all the way from work to the pub and home.

"How do you know all this?" At least while he was talking to her, he wasn't doing anything worse. Why was no one answering their buzzers? She pressed again, and he shook his head slightly.

"That won't work. I had it disconnected earlier."

 _"What?"_ She stopped and stared at him. “Who _are_ you? What do you want?”

“I want an answer to a question. You searched for a certain name earlier. It raised a discreet flag in certain other systems. Enquiries were made with the senior partners, and it transpires that there are no active cases with any bearing on this. Which implies you had your own reasons for looking. I want to know what they are.”

Constance blinked. “Oh my God. You’re Treville.” Wondering privately what the fuck Athos had got her mixed up in now. She didn’t much like that mention of the senior partners. Using the databases without proper cause was enough to get her fired. 

Assuming she survived this evening, anyway.

\--


	3. Chapter 3

“So – I told him everything.” Constance sounded apologetic. “Sorry.”

“No – dear God, you did the right thing, absolutely.”

It was an hour later. Constance had had a stiff drink and a strong cup of tea, and once she felt less like hyperventilating had called Athos.

He was pacing the bedroom, mobile clamped to his ear, while Porthos watched from the bed, trying anxiously to pick up what had happened from Athos’ side of the conversation.

“I thought I’d better tell you,” Constance added, feeling guilty about the late hour, and relieved that Athos had still been awake. “In case he turns up there. I mean, I didn’t give him your address,” she added hurriedly.

“I don’t imagine he’d need you to,” said Athos dryly. “We’re not there anyway, that might slow him down a bit. Have you told d’Artagnan what happened?”

“Christ no, can you imagine? He’d be typing the name into every database he’s got access to until the man turned up, just so he could punch him. Probably get himself shot. No, I’m okay. It scared me a bit, that was all. I’m being silly.”

“No you’re not. And I’m sorry. It was me got you into this. I never dreamed – anyway. Sorry. You’re not afraid he’ll come back?”

“No.” Constance realised this was true. “He got what he came for. And he believed me. Although I don’t think it was the answer he was expecting. I guess he thought I was a terrorist or something up to that point. I suppose that explains why he was so scary at first.”

“How did he react when you mentioned Porthos’ name?”

“It threw him.” Constance thought back, considering. “He made me repeat it. Then said it meant nothing to him, but he was lying. Even I could tell that.”

Having established that Constance was unharmed and calmer, Athos finally said goodnight and let Porthos coax him back into bed, where he related everything that had happened.

Porthos looked troubled. “Why the hell is it such a mystery?” he asked. “Who is this guy?”

“I don’t know, but it looks like I was right about him being secret service. God, I should never have talked Constance into doing that search, she wasn’t keen in the first place.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“It is! She feels obligated to me and I knew that perfectly well. I should have let her say no.”

“You didn’t know what would happen. You had no reason to think anything would happen, certainly nothing like this. And she wasn’t hurt.” Porthos cupped Athos’ face in his hand and stroked his cheek. “Stop beating yourself up. If you want to blame someone, blame me. I asked you to find the bloke.”

Athos shook his head, then turned to press a kiss into Porthos’ palm. “Never.”

He turned out the light again and settled down, snuggling into Porthos’ side. Porthos wrapped his arms around him, fingers seeking the hole in the seam of the old t-shirt Athos was sleeping in, and stroking the warm skin beneath.

“You okay?” he murmured. Athos nodded, grateful for Porthos quietly understanding that he probably wasn’t. He tried to push away the thought that a sedative would be very welcome round about now, and concentrated instead on the peculiarities of the present case until he finally fell asleep.

\--

The house was silent, even his footfalls through the empty rooms making no sound. Asleep, Athos dreamed he passed through endless doorways, moving towards some undefined goal. Reaching the dining room, which was somehow also simultaneously the kitchen here and his kitchen at home, he came to a dead end. Movement in the corner of his vision proved to be an owl beating itself against the window, white feathers and sharp beak, all in complete silence. 

He turned away from the window, conscious of someone behind him, but the room was empty. 

Or was it? The sense of a lingering presence remained, and Athos now found that he couldn’t move. Whatever it was, was behind him again. He could feel it, radiating the cold of the grave.

He knew if it touched him, he would scream. 

Skeletal fingers, rotting flesh, the suffocating blackness of the tomb. His surroundings were dim now, darkness pressing in. 

Suddenly able to move again, he reached out blindly but his fingers hit wood. A door? A _coffin_?

As if the thought had conjured the reality, suddenly he was on his back, and there was soil in his face, and he couldn’t breathe.

\--

“Athos. Athos, wake up.”

Athos struggled out of a deep sleep, feeling gluey and confused but grateful to be snatched from his dream. It all felt too horribly reminiscent of mornings he’d woken from a drugged sleep, and for a guilty, stomach lurching second he thought he must have taken something despite all his promises and good intentions to the contrary. 

As he blinked himself further awake he realised he couldn’t have, he didn’t have any to take, but it didn’t explain the thick head.

He gradually registered that it was full daylight, and Porthos was hopping about next to the bed pulling on his trousers.

“What time is it?”

“Gone nine.” Porthos stifled a yawn. “I can’t believe we both slept in this late.”

“ _Nine?_ You’re kidding.” Athos hauled himself into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes. “I haven’t slept that long in years. Literally.”

“We’d better - ” Porthos broke off, as somebody screamed. “What the hell?”

“That came from downstairs. What’s below us? The dining room?”

Porthos was already out the door and running, mostly dressed but still barefoot. Athos paused just long enough to pull on a dressing gown over his t-shirt and pyjama-shorts and followed.

The scream, it transpired, had come from Candice, who was being comforted by a rather green looking Laura. Aramis and Anne appeared together, and a tousled looking Gavin appeared from the kitchen in a fetching combination of pyjamas and wellington boots, having apparently walked over for breakfast and heard the commotion. 

“What’s going on?” Anne demanded. 

In lieu of answer, Candice just pointed a shaky finger into the dining room. Porthos walked inside, and stared at the hideous melted lump on the table. There was a revolting smell that made him want to gag, and he covered his mouth with one hand. 

“What is it?” Looking closer, he realised skeletal bony fingers protruded from the thick wax. “Is that a fucking _hand_?”

“It’s a hand of glory,” Athos said quietly behind him, sounding shocked. 

“What the ever-loving fuck is a hand of glory?” Porthos asked, staring at him.

“Traditionally, the severed hand of a hanged man, turned into a candle.” Porthos stared at him, and Athos gave a wry smile. “Never let it be said hanging out with Ninon isn’t educational. Once upon a time it was supposed to be used by thieves, lighting the fingertips was supposed to send the house into a deep sleep, so it could be ransacked.”

“That’s bollo- ” Porthos broke off and stared at him, then looked round at the others clustered in the doorway. Athos, Gavin and Anne were all in nightwear, Aramis’ shirt was buttoned wrongly as if he’d thrown it on in a hurry, and Laura was wearing fluffy slippers. 

“Did we _all_ oversleep?” he asked.

“I was the first person downstairs,” said Candice. “I thought I’d be in trouble for getting Louis his breakfast late, but there was no-one else up yet.”

“Coincidence,” Porthos muttered, avoiding Athos’ look. “That’s all. Someone’s trying to shake us.”

“Whether you credit the effects of it or not, the fact remains _someone_ set it up,” Athos pointed out. “The question we should perhaps be asking is did _they_ believe it? Have we been robbed?”

A rapid investigation revealed that two rooms had been turned over – Buckingham’s and Jensen's. 

It didn’t appear that anything had been taken from the first, although no-one could swear to it, but Jensen’s clothes and rucksack had gone from the second.

“I guess he came back for his stuff?” Aramis ventured.

“Or that’s what we’re meant to think,” Porthos said shortly. “I can’t help feeling we’re missing something here. Of all the people in this house, as far as I can tell he had the least motive for killing Buckingham.” 

“Maybe he was just afraid of being wrongly accused? Or of staying in a house with a murderer for that matter,” Aramis suggested. “I can’t say I’m too happy about it myself. Do you think it was Jensen, or not? Are we safe now, if he’s gone?”

“Keeping an open mind,” Porthos said. “There’s more to uncover yet, I know it.”

\--

Having closed off the dining room and called d’Artagnan, Porthos suggested everyone go and finish getting dressed or having breakfast.

He and Athos were on their way back down again when there was a crash from the hallway below.

“Oh, bloody hell.” 

They hastened down the final turn of the staircase to find Anne tangled with a heavy wooden step-ladder.

“Here, let me take that.” Porthos lifted it off her, and she gave him a flustered thanks and disappeared towards the kitchen.

“Who left this bloody thing here anyway?” Porthos asked. “It feels like it’s been getting in the way for ages.”

Athos looked up, then reached out to Porthos. “Wait. Put it up a sec. Just here.”

Porthos followed the line of his gaze, then did as he was asked, climbing the ladder himself before Athos could get a foot on it. 

In the shadows of the high ceiling, an old bell on a coil of metal hung from a nail, with a trailing end of wire. Porthos lifted this with a fingertip and inspected the end. A bright gleam caught the light, against the tarnished and dusty gloom of everything else.

“It’s been cut,” Porthos said. “And recently.” He climbed down again and looked at Athos. “This was how they did it. How they made sure it was Buckingham who got hit.”

Athos nodded. “He comes down the passage, somebody’s up on the ladder, tells him they’re fixing the bell and asks him to go and try it. He goes outside, pulls the mechanism - ” 

“The owl takes the first and last flight of its life, and meanwhile whoever’s inside takes down the ladder, and arrives outside with the rest,” Porthos finished. “So we know how. We’re just no closer to finding out who.”

“What about fingerprints?”

Porthos scowled at the ladder. “This thing’s been getting in the way ever since. Anyone in the house could legitimately claim they’d touched it.”

“What about the bell?” Athos looked up into the shadows. “I bet whoever cut that wire would have touched it almost without realising. If only to stop it jangling.”

Porthos stared at him. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

“Charming.” Athos smiled. “It wouldn’t be incontrovertible proof of guilt, but it would certainly be suggestive.”

“I’ll get someone back up here to take prints.” Porthos kissed him. “You’re a genius.”

\--

A second call to d’Artagnan meant that he arrived in double quick time. Having snatched a hasty breakfast, Porthos met him at the front door and hustled him into the study, followed by Athos and then Aramis before he could close the door behind him.

"D'Artagnan. Tell me you've got some good news."

"Well - certainly news, although I'm not sure at this point if it actually relates to the murder or not."

"Go on." 

D'Artagnan looked uncertainly at Athos and Aramis, then back at Porthos. 

"It's alright. Go on," Porthos nodded.

"Well sir - it turns out - Luke Buckingham doesn't exist."

"You what? Who got squashed then?"

"Bottom line, we don't know. When we went to notify his next of kin it turned out the contact details he'd given the university were all fake. And then we dug a bit deeper, and Laura was right, his qualifications were all falsified. We don't know who he was or why he was here, but there's no record of a Luke Buckingham with the history he presented, or in Louis Bourbon's extended family."

"I'm going to have to tell Anne," Aramis said, looking at Porthos. "She needs to know this."

"Agreed." Porthos nodded. "I want to be there though." He turned back to d’Artagnan. “First I want you to see the manky hand. In fact you can take it back with you, it’s giving me the creeps.”

D’Artagnan sighed. “I get all the good jobs.” 

\--

They moved to the dining room to examine the remains, and soon drew a curious crowd.

“This is candle wax,” Porthos decided, having taken a closer look. “Somebody’s dipped hand bones in wax. Isn’t it supposed to be a fresh hand? Athos?”

Athos was wandering around the room looking preoccupied, and didn’t answer.

“Athos? What’s up?”

"I was in here. Last night." Athos realised he was getting funny looks, and flushed. "In a dream, I mean. I was dreaming it. I was standing here and there was something in the room with me. I couldn't see it, but I knew it was there. There was this awful sense of claustrophobia that came with it. I couldn't move, and it was getting closer, and - " he broke off, embarrassed. "Sorry."

"Where was it?" Anne asked with a horrified fascination, of everyone in the room the most predisposed to believe there was something nasty inhabiting the house.

Athos considered. "Over here." He moved towards the wooden panelling, and felt suddenly cold. 

"You alright?" Porthos asked, noticing him shiver.

"Goose on my grave." Athos hesitated, then stepped closer to the wall. The closer he got, the more prickly he felt. "There's something here," he said, half to himself. He reached out, letting his fingers trace the panelling.

"Looking for a secret passage?" Gavin mocked.

Athos' trailing fingers caught a rough lip of wood, and he winced. "Ow." He peered closer, feeling across the same patch. "This isn't flush. There's a panel here that's sticking out slightly." He tried to pry it open with his fingernails, then considered the problem and pushed instead. There was a click, and the whole section swung out.

The surprised and excited murmurs this elicited turned to cries of horror as the panel swung wide enough to reveal what was inside the cavity.

A human skull.

"Oh my God!" Anne clapped a hand to her mouth. 

"What the fuck?" Porthos stared at it in alarm.

"Spooky!" Laura sounded almost delighted, and everyone looked at her. "What? It is. I mean, it's not -" she paled suddenly. "It's not - _recent_ , is it?"

"It looks old," Aramis reassured her. 

Athos reached out to lift it out, but Porthos forestalled him.

"No! Don't touch it!"

Athos snatched his hand back in alarm and looked questioningly at him. Porthos gave him an an apologetic smile. "Sorry. I just meant - there might be fingerprints."

"You mean that thing was put there by someone here?" Anne demanded. "I mean, it's not been sat in there for centuries?"

"This panel has been opened recently," Athos said. "It hadn't been shut properly, that's how I found it."

As everyone took in the implications of this there was a certain amount of suspicious side-eyeing of each other. 

"Chase up the fingerprinting," Porthos told d’Artagnan. "They can do that bell in the passage while they're at it."

\--

While they were waiting, Porthos took Anne into the study and broke the news that Buckingham hadn’t been who he claimed.

“Did he ever offer you any proof that he was who he said he was?” Porthos asked curiously.

“Not as such. I mean – he showed me his page on the university website, he seemed genuine in that respect. He never asked me for money,” Anne added. “I know what you’re thinking. And maybe I was naive, I don’t know, but I placed all orders myself. I can’t see that he could have been scamming me. Unless he’s got shares in a vintage tile warehouse.” 

Porthos smiled. “You’re taking it better than I thought you would.”

“In a strange way, it’s almost a relief,” Anne admitted. “The thought that a man who’d been helping me, who’d been a relation of sorts should have met his death here, was awful. But if he was planning on robbing me, then – well, I suppose it doesn’t seem so bad. Does that seem callous of me?”

“No. I can see where you’re coming from.” Porthos wondered how far that extended. If she’d found out beforehand – could she have been angry enough to kill him? He didn’t think so, but he didn’t discount it entirely yet. 

\--

To Porthos’ annoyance, when the forensic analyst finally turned up later that afternoon she was accompanied not by d'Artagnan but by DS Marcheaux.

He wandered in looking around at everything with an insolent curiosity, and was shown the skull in the hidden cavity.

"Secret passages and country house murder? You're going properly old-school sir."

"Just get on with it Sergeant," Porthos muttered. 

"Excuse me." The analyst looked in from the hallway. "Sorry, where did you say the bell was?"

"Just up by the ceiling," Porthos told her, then when she still looked confused he strode impatiently out into the hallway. "It's right there." He pointed, and then frowned. "Hang on. It was - "

By now Athos and Aramis had come out as well.

"It's gone," said Athos.

"Gone." Marcheaux gave him a flat look. "Walked off on its own, did it?"

"It was there this morning," Athos said. "Unless you think we were both hallucinating.”

"Someone must have taken advantage of the distraction when we found the skull to take it down," Porthos said slowly, trying to remember who else had been in the room. Athos, obviously, and Anne. Gavin and Laura - but had they all been there the whole time? They might well have spoken to draw attention to their presence, but he couldn't swear they'd been there from start to finish.

"How _did_ you find this skull?" Marcheaux asked. "Who found it?"

"I did," said Athos.

"Apparently it came to him in a dream," Gavin said sarcastically, and Marcheaux snorted. 

"A dream?"

"Kind've," Athos admitted uncomfortably. 

"So while everyone's distracted by your amazing 'discovery', the bell involved in the murder goes missing? That's handy."

"What are you implying?" 

"That maybe there's two people in this," Marcheaux suggested. "Maybe you had an accomplice. Murder does seem to follow you around an awful lot, doesn't it?"

"Back off." Porthos stepped in front of Athos and glared at his sergeant. "Athos is not a suspect."

Marcheaux sneered at him. "You know we may have had our differences, but there was a time I at least respected you as a decent copper. Before you started letting a druggie lawyer lead you around by your dick."

Porthos bunched his fists, controlling himself with difficulty. He felt Athos lay a calming hand on his arm.

"It's alright," Athos said to Marcheaux. "I wouldn't expect you to understand. That level of trust has to go both ways, and I don't imagine anyone's ever trusted you like that."

The barb hit home, and Marcheaux gave him a dangerous look. "Talking of which, I hear you go both ways and all. Maybe it's not just the vicar with a jealous fancy for the lovely widow?"

"Hey!" This was Aramis, and Marcheaux turned to look at him expectantly. 

"Yes Reverend? Something to say have we?" 

"You will keep a civil tongue in your head in this lady's house!"

Marcheaux gave him a knowing look. "Her house, yes, not yours. You seem very at home here. Deceased getting in the way, was he?"

To everyone's relief at this point the analyst indicated she was ready to go, having collected the skull for further examination and finished with the hidden recess. Porthos drove Marcheaux out of the room ahead of him, brooking no argument, and everyone else filtered out after them, until only Athos and Anne were left.

Conscious of his promise to Porthos to try and get Anne to open up about whatever it was she was hiding, Athos hung back.

“This must all be a terrible strain on you,” he murmured. “Nobody would blame you if you gave up the whole thing and just sold the place.”

Anne shook her head. “I’m not a quitter. I’ve put so much into developing this place as a hotel and starting to market it, I can’t afford to fail now.”

Athos suddenly wondered if she was talking literally. Everyone had always assumed Louis’ death had left her very well off, and she appeared to be in possession of two extremely valuable houses – but he knew all too well from his career in law that the image people presented to the world was often nothing more than a front.

“I don’t understand why you need to get this place up and running so soon?” he ventured. “What’s the rush?”

Anne hesitated, polishing the spot on the table where the grisly candle had sat. “Can I trust you, Athos?”

“Yes. Currently, anything you say to me is protected under client privilege.”

Anne looked slightly startled by that, and then blushed. “Oh. Yes. I should confess, having engaged you, I’m not sure I can actually afford your fees.”

“They’re not all that steep these days,” Athos smiled. “And for that matter Aramis would probably never speak to me again if I presented you with a bill in any case. Is money tight?” he pressed gently.

Anne sighed. “My husband was never what you might call a particularly astute business man. I suppose I always knew that, but he wanted to keep me away from his business dealings, so it wasn’t until after he’d passed away that I realised just how unwise he had been. He’d made some very ill judged investments, speculated in ventures that failed, if they weren’t out and out scams to begin with. Bottom line, I inherited an awful lot of debts. I’m losing the house, Athos. Louis’ house. Everything has gone to pay off what was owed. I couldn’t afford speculation over my relationship with Aramis, if there was even a whiff of scandal the will might have been contested. Without the physical assets to dispose of, I’d have lost every last penny I held in my own right.”

“Does Aramis know all this?”

“No. He’d have insisted on marrying me anyway, and become liable for the debts himself. I couldn’t let him do that.” Anne gave him a bleak smile. “I had some jewellery of my own. Family pieces. I sold them, put everything into opening this place as a hotel. It’s my last shot at making a go of my own life, without being dependent on someone else, do you see that? I was trapped with Louis, for a long time. It wasn’t exactly an arranged marriage in the strictest sense, but it was expected of us. We were friends, I suppose, more than anything else. Apart from everything else, I didn’t want to jump straight into another marriage. I wanted to get myself together first. It wouldn’t have been fair on Aramis otherwise.”

Athos shook his head. “If you wait until you think you’re ready for a relationship, if you wait until you’ve got all your shit together? You’ll be waiting forever, trust me. I know it can be difficult, to feel you’re landing a burden of care on the one you love. But shutting them out can end up being more painful for them in the long run.” 

“Do you think me cruel?”

“That’s not for me to say.”

“Be honest. Please?”

“Alright. I understand your reasons, but you owe Aramis the truth about the child. He deserves to know whether it’s his or not. To hold it over him – yes, that’s cruel.”

“You’re assuming I know the truth myself.”

“Yes. I am.” Athos looked at her levelly. “I’m not asking you to tell me,” he added. “But tell Aramis. He deserves to know, one way or the other.”

Anne nodded slowly, then her face crumpled. “I’ve made such a hash of everything.”

“No you haven’t.” Athos moved to comfort her, drawing her into a hug. “Everything’s fixable.”

“Not for Luke.” Anne buried her face in his shoulder, shaking slightly as she finally let go of some of the burden of tension she’d been carrying. It had been easier somehow to talk to Athos, a neutral outsider, than to admit everything to Aramis.

“His death wasn’t your fault,” Athos said firmly. “At least, I’m assuming it wasn’t. Because if you did kill him, I’m done stripping your floorboards.”

As he’d hoped, that made Anne hiccup with laughter and stop crying, and she wiped her eyes and looked up at him.

“Thank you.” On impulse she returned his hug, and it was just as they were wrapped in each other’s arms that the door opened and Aramis and Porthos walked back in.

On later reflection, Athos considered the way they’d jumped apart from each other probably hadn’t helped the impression of guilt, but as it was Aramis just gave Anne a hard stare and turned and walked out again.

“Aramis!” Anne ran out after him, leaving Athos and Porthos staring at each other a little cautiously.

"It's really not what it looks like," said Athos.

"I should hope it isn’t." Porthos came towards him slowly.

"She was upset. I was just - a convenient shoulder." Athos frowned, remembering Marcheaux’s earlier accusations and hoping Porthos wasn’t taking them seriously. "You _do_ believe me?" 

Porthos held his gaze sternly, then conceded the point with a tilt of the head. Athos let out a breath, feeling abruptly rather weak in the legs. 

"Guess I'm just the trusting sort," Porthos said with a smile, pulling Athos closer and kissing him. "Apparently more so than Aramis, anyway."

"He asked her to marry him," Athos said. "And she kept him hanging, for reasons of her own. I guess he's afraid she's got somebody else."

"What, you?" Porthos gave a hoot of laughter, and Athos looked mildly indignant. 

"Charming."

"Not that I'm faulting her taste, obviously." Porthos looked at him. "Here, she didn't try it on did she? Go in for a hug and pull off a sneaky grope?"

"No!" Athos gave a splutter of laughter. "Anyway, she knows I am very firmly taken."

Porthos smirked, and pulled him into a hug. "Would you like to be?"

"Porthos!"

"I'm serious. That's a massive bed upstairs, and I’ve got quite fond of it." He winked. "Maybe a few alarming noises would put Aramis' mind at rest."

“Alright.” 

“Really?” Porthos hadn’t really expected Athos to agree, and stared at him in surprise.

“Why not.” Athos slid a hand into his, and brushed a kiss against Porthos’ jaw, making him shiver. “Everyone else seems to be at it. Why shouldn’t we?”

They snuck hastily back up to their room and locked the door, kissing again as they jostled each other across to the bed. There was a particular thrill to making love in the afternoon, not to mention in somebody else’s house, and Porthos was hugely turned on by the fact that for once Athos seemed to be taking the initiative, straddling Porthos where he lay on the bed and unfastening his trousers.

“I should invite you to fornicate in the daytime more often,” Porthos grinned, lifting his hips to let Athos pull his boxers down. “If this is what you get like.”

Athos just smiled and said nothing, but proceeded to demonstrate he had a much better use for his mouth.

\--

Afterwards, when they were lying sleepy and sated and trying to work up the energy to get dressed again, Porthos nudged Athos with a grin. 

“I was a bit worried about you before, I thought staying here in this gloomy atmosphere might bring you down a bit. But if the last couple of days is anything to go by, I needn’t have worried. Here, you’ve not been possessed by the ghost of a nympho, have you?”

Athos stretched lazily and draped his leg over Porthos’, curling into his side. “I don’t think it’s got anything to do with ghosts. I was talking to Aramis - “

“About our sex life?” Porthos interrupted indignantly.

“In a manner of speaking. Anyway, bottom line, it could be the withdrawal.”

“I’m not with you.”

“I’ve been on some form of tranquilliser since before we met. And now I’m – not. They were probably affecting me in areas I hadn’t even considered. Like – well, my sex drive.”

“Are you telling me that when you’re not on sedatives you’re a horny little beast?”

“Possibly.”

Porthos grinned. “Well that’s an unlooked for bonus.”

“It’ll probably settle down eventually.”

“No rush, eh?”

\--

Anne had finally caught up with Aramis in the garden, and having first indignantly berated him for assuming the scene with Athos had been anything other than innocent, she then finally came clean about everything else.

By this time they were sitting together on a stone bench beneath an overgrown laurel hedge, out of sight of the house and quite private in the afternoon sun.

“Why didn’t you tell me all of this before?” Aramis asked, head in his hands

Anne sighed, uncomfortable but determined. “I suppose I wanted to sort things out myself. You do see, don’t you? Why I couldn’t tell you?”

Aramis looked over the top of his fingers at her, half-exasperated and half-insulted, but all of it outweighed by the relief and joy of what else she’d just told him.

“You didn’t think I would keep it secret if that’s what you wanted?”

“Would you have? Honestly? If I’d told you from the beginning that Louis was yours, are you seriously suggesting you wouldn’t have insisted I marry you immediately?”

“Are you holding my good nature against me?”

“The word I would have used is stubborn.”

Despite the cut and parry of words, by now they were smiling at each other.

“I know I should have told you, I just didn’t want you to feel obliged to take all this mess on. I was on the verge of bankruptcy.”

“You can’t think I only wanted you for the money?” Aramis asked, horrified.

“No, of course not. But equally I didn’t want you to think I just wanted a way out of trouble.”

Aramis, trying manfully to take it all in, came to an unpleasant realisation, and frowned. 

“Hang on. We still can’t go public with it all.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? They could still sue you. Louis’ lot, I mean. You said it was the wording of the will, that meant you had to hide the truth even after he passed away?”

“Louis left everything to his ‘firstborn son’, rather than naming him. If it had come out Louis junior wasn’t his, his sister and brother-in-law would’ve done their damnedest to make sure they got the house, and left me with all the debt. So I managed things. It was simply justice.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is fraud,” said Aramis wryly. 

“I spent seven years married to a man who barely noticed I was there!” Anne protested hotly. “And after all that, it’s all gone to pay off his debts! It just means this way I’m not penniless and out on the streets.”

“I’m not objecting. I’m just saying it might not be sensible to tell people I’m Louis’ father after all.”

“Then what can we do?” asked Anne, looking stricken.

“There’s only one thing we sensibly can do. I’ll have to adopt him.”

“You’d do that?”

Aramis took her hand. “We’d know the truth. Nobody else matters.”

\--

Athos was standing near the window of their room getting dressed again when he saw Aramis and Anne walk across the lawn, hand in hand and talking earnestly.

“Looks like they’ve made up,” he remarked, and Porthos came over to look. 

“Have you ever wanted children?” he asked quietly, slipping his arms around Athos’ waist and resting his chin on Athos’ shoulder.

Athos shrugged. “It never really came up.”

“I didn’t ask if you’d ever had a conversation about it. I asked if you’d ever wanted any.”

“I – maybe. I don’t know.” Athos gave an awkward laugh. “I can barely look after myself, I’d be a terrible father.”

“I think you’d make a great one,” said Porthos softly.

“Do you want children?” Athos asked suddenly, turning in his arms as he cottoned on to the fact that this conversation might be more about Porthos than him.

“It would be nice,” Porthos said wistfully. “Things being what they are, I’d always assumed I’d never be able to, but it’s getting easier, these days. I always had this stupid fantasy I suppose, about having this loving family unit thing going on. About being able to give a family and a home to some poor kid out there without one, the kind of childhood I never really got.” He looked embarrassed. “I dunno, maybe I’m just projecting.”

“Doesn’t make it a bad thing to want,” Athos assured him.

“Do you think – one day maybe we could – ?” Porthos ventured hesitantly.

Athos looked down. “I – I’m not sure. I don’t think I’m in the kind of place right now where I could cope with it. One day though, maybe, yeah.”

Porthos was happy enough not to have received a flat no, but Athos looked abruptly cross with himself. “What’s wrong?” Porthos coaxed.

“After everything I said to Anne – I don’t want it to become something I’m holding over you.”

“Athos – if it happens, then great. If it doesn’t? It won’t ever be a deal breaker, I promise. I love you.”

\--

To everyone’s relief the following evening and night passed uneventfully, and the next morning d’Artagnan was back with some news. He took Porthos aside into the study, and somehow wasn’t in the least surprised when both Athos and Aramis followed them in.

"We got a print off that skull. I'm not sure you're going to like the answer though," he told Porthos once the door was closed.

"Go on. Tell me the worst."

"Well sir - it belonged to the dead man."

"Buckingham?" Porthos asked in surprise. "Or - whoever he was."

"Yes sir. That’s just it, this is how we’ve finally managed to identify him. We got a match with the corpse okay, but then we ran it through the system. Turns out he's got a record. His real name's Luke Villiers, and he's a jewel thief. He's done two stretches for it."

"Not a very good one then," Athos murmured. 

"A thief?" Porthos echoed, ignoring him. "What was he doing here? After Anne's jewels?" He looked at Aramis. "Has she reported anything missing?"

"No, not that she's said. But I got the impression she’d already sold most of the good stuff to fund the renovations."

"Not to Buckingham I hope. I assume she’d have said, but can you check with her?" Porthos instructed. "If she has got any valuable pieces left I'll arrange for an expert to examine them with her present, make sure nothing's been swapped out for paste."

Aramis hurried out, and they all looked at each other. 

"You don't suppose she caught Villiers with his hand in the till and bumped him off do you?" d'Artagnan said finally.

"Surely she'd have just thrown him out or called the police on him," Athos argued. "It's hardly grounds for murder."

"If she felt strongly enough about the fact he'd fooled her..." Porthos considered it, then shook his head. "No, you're right, I don't buy it, I never have. If he'd been beaten round the head with a jewellery box, or choked to death on a diamond - then maybe. But to rig up all that business with the bell? Nah."

"There's something else," d'Artagnan reported. "Turns out he has got a degree, just not in interior design. It's in historic architecture. He completed it while he was in prison the first time. His dissertation was on secret passages and priest holes in Tudor manor houses. And his _second_ stretch inside was for stealing an antique necklace from a Dorset stately home. The interesting point being that it had been presumed lost for several generations and all that time had been hidden behind a secret panel."

"So if Buckingham - sorry, Villiers - had somehow heard that there was something of value hidden in this house," Athos said slowly. "He might have rocked up here with the intention of stealing it."

"Which is all very well," Porthos said, "but it doesn't get us any closer to who might have killed _him_."

"An accomplice?" d'Artagnan suggested. "A fence? Someone who wanted all the money for themselves?"

"That suggests his accomplice was someone with the opportunity to set up the trick with the owl," Porthos said. "Why bother trying to make it look like an accident? And if Villiers was the one with the necessary skills to find these old hiding places, it doesn't make sense to kill him off. Besides, we don't know that he actually found anything here."

"I think we do," Athos corrected slowly. "We know he found that hidden recess in the dining room, because he placed that skull inside - presumably to scare whoever found it enough to stop them thinking about what might have been in there beforehand. Anne thought she heard someone moving around after dark - what if it was Villiers, looking for hidey-holes? He might have encouraged her to believe the place was haunted - if she'd gone back to the other house overnight he wouldn't have had to sneak about."

"Alright, two things," Porthos said. "If he did find something in that recess, then where is it now? And where the fuck did he get that skull?"

\--

Returning to their room before lunch, Athos was part way down the upstairs corridor before he noticed something was wrong. 

He slowly became aware that he should have reached the door to his room by now, and seemed to have been walking for an oddly long time. Looking up, the corridor stretched away in front of him, walls and ceiling closing in to a vanishing point far in excess of what should have been possible. 

Athos turned round, only to see the same effect behind him, and no sign of the stairs he’d come up. Disoriented and alarmed he started hurrying along, but while the sense of physical movement was tangible he made no apparent forward progress. 

After about a minute of this, which should have been enough for him to run the length of the entire corridor and back, he became aware of a whispering at his shoulder. Again Athos turned sharply, once, twice, three times until he was dizzy. The sense of not being alone made his skin crawl, and the whisper of voices just beyond his hearing was like being swarmed over by tickling insects.

"What do you want?" he cried out, unable to stand it any longer. 

Abruptly, everything snapped back to normal. The corridor was as it had always been, window at the far end letting in the midday sunshine, slightly shabby carpet runner behaving sensibly. No murmuring voices, no sense of being crowded.

A door opened, and Porthos stuck his head out, blinking when he saw Athos. "Did you call?"

"Not exactly." Athos came into their room and Porthos frowned at him, thinking he looked pale.

"You okay?"

"Define okay," Athos said shakily, sinking onto the bed. 

"What's happened?"

Athos just shook his head, and Porthos sat next to him, draping an arm around his shoulders. "Tell me," he insisted more softly.

"Even if it makes me sound crazy?"

"Even then." 

"I think there's something here. In this house. I think it wants to be heard."

"A ghost?" Porthos tried hard to keep the scepticism out of his voice.

"I think - maybe more than one."

"Well, this is an old house right? Like we said, must have seen a lot of dead people over the years."

"That's just it, it doesn't feel like a natural accumulation of years. It feels - it feels almost like a mob."

"Do you want to go home?"

Athos shook his head. "That doesn't solve anything. And it leaves Anne with the problem. She feels it too, I know she does."

"So what do we do? Are you saying you want to hold a seance or something?"

"No." Athos shook his head again, more consideringly. "There's a difference between listening to something, and inviting it in. I think - I think maybe all I need to do is sleep."

"Can you?" Porthos asked. "Not being funny, but it's not exactly what you're best at."

Athos guessed his unspoken worry. "I won't take anything," he promised quietly. "Somehow I think it won't be a problem."

"Alright." Porthos got to his feet. "I'll be downstairs then. Unless you want me to stay?"

"No. It's fine. I'll be okay. Porthos - "

Porthos turned back, enquiring.

"Thank you. I know how this all must sound to you. Thank you for not dismissing it.”

\--

Remaining fully clothed, Athos lay on his back on top of the bed, watching the waving shadows formed on the ceiling where the sunshine backlit the climbing rose and ivy.

It was soothingly hypnotic, and Athos soon found his eyelids drooping.

Gradually, he became aware that the gently waving tendrils of shadow were creeping across the ceiling towards him. His first thought was that the sun must be going down, changing the angle of the shadow, but it was too fast for that. An optical illusion then, caused by staring at them too long? No, there was no mistaking it now, the shadows were advancing across the ceiling. He raised his head and belatedly discovered they were also creeping across the floor and walls, the floor below the bed already lost in a dark pool of shadow. 

Snakelike, they twined up the legs of the bed and when he tried to flinch out of the way Athos realised he couldn't move.

 _Dreaming. I'm dreaming,_ he thought desperately, suppressing with difficulty the panicked instinct to fight himself awake. This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? 

The room was obscured now, not the pitch darkness of his previous dream but more an absence of awareness, his surroundings blurred and nebulous. He was aware with a horrible clarity that if he had mistaken the intentions of whatever this was, it was too late to do anything about it.

Athos became aware that he wasn't alone. There was a presence with him in the room; he could neither see it nor hear it, but he knew it was there. Unable to move or speak, he became gripped by an icy terror, desperately hoping now that whatever it was would pass by and not notice him.

It was getting closer. Formless, but somehow still with weight to it, it flowed right up over him and pressed him down into the bed with the intimacy of the grave.

Slowly but surely it was smothering him. Finally he stopped trying to fight with his uselessly immobile body and tried with his mind instead, pushing back mentally against the darkness.

 _I'm trying to help you_ he thought, forming the words as loudly as he could in his mind. It felt like nothing more than a psychic whimper of protest, and he wondered if there was even anything sentient here to understand him. 

_I'm going to die._ Unbidden, the knowledge flared in his mind, and he pushed back against it as hard and as angrily as possible. He pictured sunlight, fresh air, walking in the garden with Porthos. Light, hopeful, happy times to combat the darkness.

Walking through the grounds. Trees around him, stone walls. The sound of a stream. An angel, half covered in ivy.

It was a pleasant scene, and Athos realised with considerable relief that the awful pressure and sense of dread had passed. As soon as he realised that he opened his eyes, and was almost surprised to find himself lying on the bed.

He sat up, shaking. It had all seemed so real, but he was certain he'd never been anywhere that looked like the place in his dream. Could it be that was where the unseen presence wanted him to go? But there’d been no distinguishing features, how could he ever work out where it was? 

Unless – unless it was that simple.

\--


	4. Chapter 4

“Athos.” Porthos got to his feet as soon as Athos came in, looking pale. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. I think I know – is there another building in the grounds anywhere?” he asked. “Maybe a ruin?”

He’d addressed the question to Anne, but it was Aramis who answered. 

“There’s the ruins of an old chapel down by the brook. We saw it marked on the OS map once and went down to have a look. Not much of it left, just a bit of wall, and it was horribly overgrown, so we’ve not been back since. Why?”

“I think I need to go there,” Athos said, glancing at Porthos. “I think whatever’s in this house wants me to.”

“Well you’re not going on your own,” Porthos said immediately. He looked at Aramis. “Can you show us where it is?”

“Sure.” Aramis looked sceptical, but got to his feet willingly enough. Anne declared she was coming too, so they set off through the trees.

Despite what Aramis had said, the route seemed fairly easily navigated and it wasn’t long before they heard the sound of running water that indicated the brook must be close.

"Look." Athos grabbed Porthos' arm, halting him in his tracks and pointing towards the grey stonework now emerging from the trees. Perched on top of a crumbling stone angel, in broad daylight, was a barn owl. Turning its head to look at them, for a moment it held its position, before launching into the air and sailing into the trees on silent wings.

Moving closer, they could see Aramis had been right, there was very little of the chapel left. The roof was gone entirely, and most of one wall, leaving the rest to ivy and entropy. 

"You said it was overgrown," Athos remarked absently.

"It was. We had to fight our way through before. Someone's cleared it."

"Must have been Gavin," Anne said, adding, "I didn't ask him to. He’s not mentioned it."

"Looks like he'd been using it as a store." Porthos had got there first, and found a stash of garden tools leaning against the one intact wall. "Hang on, what's this?" 

A flash of colour beneath the tools had caught his eye, and he pulled out something bulky. There was a frozen moment when everyone watching briefly thought it was a body, but it was only a rucksack.

"Gavin's?" Aramis wondered. 

Porthos went through the front pockets, and came up with a bunch of keys with a Brooklyn College fob. "Jensen's," he said grimly. 

"He never left after all," Athos murmured.

"I don't understand. Has he been hiding down here?" Anne asked.

Porthos looked troubled. "That's one possibility."

Anne paled. "You think he's dead." 

"I hope I'm wrong. Spread out. Look for anything else out of place."

They combed the undergrowth with a certain amount of trepidation. Aramis was the first to come across a patch of clearly disturbed ground.

"Here," he called quietly, and the others came over.

Porthos fetched a shovel from the store and probed in the earth. It wasn't long before his digging pried something out of the soil that send a ripple of consternation through those watching - a hand.

Pulling on a pair of gardening gloves, Porthos crouched down and cleared away more of the earth. 

"It's Jensen," he confirmed grimly. "Looks like his head's been bashed in." He straightened up and reached for his phone. "No signal. Great." He fished in his wallet for a card and handed it to Anne. "Go up to the house and call d'Artagnan on this number. Let him know what we've found. And don't let on to any of the others. Make sure you're not overheard."

She nodded silently, took the card and walked back up the path. After a moment Aramis shook his head. "I'm going with her. There's a murderer on the loose."

Porthos let him go without protest, and Athos gave him an enquiring look. "You've satisfied yourself it's not him then?"

"Be a pretty bold move to have lead us here if it was," Porthos said. "But yeah. I don't think it's him. I didn’t think you did, either."

"I don't. I wasn't sure you shared my thinking though. I take it we’re assuming from this it was Gavin?"

Porthos nodded slowly. “You know, something had been nagging at me. Gavin mentioned having come here as a child,” he said. “It didn’t strike me as odd at the time, but how could he have, when Feron lived here his whole life? Is Gavin related to Feron somehow, does he think he’s the rightful heir? But why kill Buckingham? Or was Anne the target after all? And why kill Jensen for that matter?”

Athos had picked up the gloves Porthos had taken off and was on his knees by the shallow grave, probing around the body.

"Athos, don't. It's a crime scene, leave it for forensics now."

"There's something underneath him."

Porthos wavered, then relented with a grunt. "Let me get a shot of him as he is." Athos moved back and Porthos took a series of pictures on his phone recording the position of the body, then nodded to Athos. Using the shovel, they levered Jensen's body up a little and dug away the soil beneath.

Something brown protruded from the earth, and Athos thought at first it was a tree root. 

"Bones," he realised, as more came to light. 

"Don't tell me we've got a serial killer on our hands," Porthos groaned. 

"I think these are old." Athos brushed away more soil, and a pair of empty eye sockets stared up at him from the grave. He moved back, trying not to look like it had made him jump.

"Guess we know where that skull in the dining room came from."

"How many are there?" Porthos asked incredulously. 

"More than a couple. Some kind of mass grave. Plague pit?"

They looked at each other, and moved further away from the grave, Athos removing the gloves and tossing them to the ground.

"I'm sure it's not still infectious," Porthos said uneasily.

"Let's hope." 

By common consent they made their way hurriedly back towards the house. 

“So – _is_ it Gavin?” Athos asked as they climbed the tree-lined path. “Or is someone setting him up?”

Porthos stopped so abruptly that Athos, walking with his head down, banged into him. 

“I’ve been so stupid,” Porthos said, staring blankly into the trees. “I saw him do it – we both did. You even told me he did it. And I never connected the dots.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Gavin. What was he doing when we first arrived here?”

Athos thought back. “Fixing the rose trellis.”

“Was he, though? When I found that wire, my first thought was that it had come off that, so I looked. All the wire runs fixed to the house were old and rusty. He hadn’t fixed any of it. So what was he doing?” Porthos stared meaningfully at Athos, whose eyes widened.

“Oh, shit.”

“You even said it. I just never thought it would be that obvious. That _blatant._ ” Porthos smacked himself in the side of the head. “If I’d only realised earlier, maybe Jensen needn’t have died.”

“You can’t blame yourself. None of us saw it. And I still don’t understand why? What does he stand to gain?”

“Let’s find out,” Porthos said grimly. “Come on.”

They came out of the trees to find most of the household assembled at the front door.

“What’s going on?” Porthos muttered uneasily. 

“Gavin’s got a bag,” Athos noticed. “I think he’s trying to leave.”

They hurried across the lawn, and didn’t miss the look of relief on Anne’s face when she saw them.

“Gavin’s handed in his notice,” she called loudly, her voice too bright and brittle. “I’m trying to convince him to stay, whatever are we going to do without him?”

Something in the combination of her tone and the expression on Porthos’ face must have tipped him off, because Gavin suddenly threw down his bag and took off at a run down the drive.

“Oh, not again,” Porthos groaned, and took off after him.

Thumping down the drive after a tiring climb up from the chapel, Porthos felt like his heart was going to beat right out of his ears. He wasn’t gaining either, with every stride it felt like the gap between them was slowly widening.

Porthos belatedly realised he should have got in the damn car instead, but it was too late now, he was committed. Although he did wonder how far Gavin thought he could get – it was a stiff walk even into the village from here, and unless he had a car of his own stashed somewhere he’d be run to ground eventually.

Perhaps realising this, Gavin cut sideways across the drive, heading towards the treeline rather than the gate. Porthos swore. Running downhill between the trees it’d be a lot harder to catch him, and Gavin had the advantage of knowing the terrain. 

Just as Porthos was starting to think he was going to lose him after all, the sound of an engine broke through the general pounding in his ears, and a car turned into the driveway at some speed. For an irate second Porthos thought someone had come to spirit the man away from right under his nose, but then he recognised d’Artagnan behind the wheel and gestured wildly.

D’Artagnan apparently correctly interpreted his boss’s gesticulations, as he swerved off the drive and across the grass to come to a skidding halt in front of Gavin, blocking his escape route and piling out of the car to stop him getting any further.

Porthos puffed to a halt beside them.

“Gavin Bridger, I’m arresting you for the murder of Luke Buckingham and Jensen Naylor. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence against you. Do you understand?”

Gavin looked mutinous, but gave a brusque nod and stayed silent. Porthos handcuffed him, looking up as Athos ran up to join them.

“Do we take him back to the station?” d’Artagnan asked. Porthos considered, then looked sideways at Athos and grinned. 

“Nah, fuck it. Let’s have this out here. Assemble everyone in the library.” He looked pleased with himself. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

\--

A few minutes later the whole bewildered household was gathered in what had been Feron’s old library. Most of the books were in boxes or in the process of being catalogued, and there was a distinct smell of mildew in the air, but nobody objected. 

“Right then.” Porthos clapped his hands once and looked at Gavin expectantly. “Let’s have it. Who are you, and what’s your connection with this house?”

For a moment Gavin looked like he was going to hold out, but finally shrugged. “Lucien Grimaud’s my uncle,” he explained.

“So that’s it.” Porthos stared at him, realising that Gavin’s initial interest in the arrest had stemmed from resentment rather than admiration. He suspected Athos wasn’t going to let him forget this.

“Why did you kill Jensen?” he demanded, feeling this was the most baffling part of the whole business. “Just to throw us off the scent?”

“Who says he’s dead?” Gavin countered.

“We do. We found his body. And his kit, hidden underneath your tools.”

Gavin appeared to weigh up his chances of bluffing his way out, then rolled his eyes. “Little shit tried to blackmail me,” he admitted. “Claimed he saw me tampering with the owl. Said if I didn’t pay up he’d turn me in.”

Candice gave a startled laugh, then flushed when everyone looked at her in surprise. “Sorry, but – you were done mate. He tried the same thing on me. Of course I didn’t know what he was on about, so I just laughed in his face and told him to fuck off. He must’ve figured he’d try everyone in turn until he got lucky.”

“Not sure lucky’s the word I’d use,” Porthos muttered. “A dangerous game to play, as he apparently found out. So you – what? Arranged to meet him down at the chapel on the pretext of paying him, and did for him instead?”

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” Gavin complained. “I was angry. I shoved him, he hit his head.”

“Save it for the jury,” Porthos growled. “It’s got bells on. Alright, so Jensen was blackmailing you. Jensen I get now. Where does poor bloody Buckingham fit into all this?”

Gavin slumped despondently in his chair. “My uncle told me about a stash of jewellery he’d hidden and not been able to get out of the place before he was arrested, so I came looking for it. Didn’t expect there to be anyone here, but when there was, I figured a job’d be a good cover while I got the stuff out. Except it turned out to be more difficult to find the opportunity to get in – I wasn’t sleeping in the main house, and there were more people wandering about at night than I’d expected.” He glanced at Candice, who flushed and looked away. 

“First night I tried, I ran into Candice, and lost my nerve. Second night I ran into Buckingham and had to claim I was just going to the kitchen for a snack. Third night Jensen and Laura stayed up till all hours playing cards in the damn room I wanted to get into. Meantime, I’d been working in the grounds during the day and found that ruined building, cleared it out a bit. Decided it’d be a good place to stash my stuff that nobody’d find in a hurry.”

For the first time, Gavin looked unnerved. “Was weird though. Clearing it out, I kept thinking I heard things. People whispering. And then I found - ”

“What?” said about three people in unison.

“A grave. It was crumbling into the stream, all that rain we had over the winter must have washed it out. I thought it was just a normal burial at first, you know, from the chapel, but then there were too many bones. Creepy as shit. Anyway I covered it over again, but that evening I told Buckingham about it. He’d made some kind of crack about me wandering about the place at night, and I needed to distract him.”

“Get to the point,” Porthos growled, making everyone jump. 

Gavin looked indignant, having clearly been enjoying a roomful of people hanging on his every word. “So, the night after I finally managed to get into the place unseen, and found the right panel - only the bloody thing was empty apart from a damn skull grinning out at me. Jumped fucking feet, I can tell you, all by bloody torchlight. But I got to thinking. There was only one place that skull could have come from, and only one person I’d told about it. Buckingham. Which meant whatever had been in there, he had it.”

“So he had to die,” Athos supplied. “You rigged up that business with the owl and assumed it would all be taken as a terrible accident, at least for long enough for you to clear away the evidence. But you didn’t count on there being a policeman present, or that the scene would be so quickly sealed. And once Porthos had figured out it was murder, you couldn’t slip away without looking guilty.”

“I knew if I just nicked it off him and ran, Buckingham would come after me,” Gavin admitted. “But talking to the others I realised he hadn’t declared what he’d found, not even to Anne. Which meant he must have planned on keeping it for himself. So I reasoned if something were to happen to him, nobody would ever’ve known he’d had it in the first place.”

“You turned over his room to find the loot, and then emptied Jensen’s as well so it’d look like _he’d_ killed Buckingham and just done a runner,” Porthos said.

“Nearly worked and all. Except I seem to have picked the only person in the house without a decent motive.” Gavin looked disgusted rather than repentant. 

“I have a question,” said Aramis. “Where are the jewels now?”

Gavin looked smug. “Not telling. You can bang me up, but when I get out, I’ll be back for them. Think of it as a retirement policy.”

“Alright, take him away,” Porthos told d’Artagnan tiredly, suddenly sickened by the theatricals. “Get him to the station and get the rest of the team up here to deal with the bodies at the chapel.” He looked at Athos. “If I go with them, can you look after things here? Don’t let anyone go poking about down there until we’ve removed the remains and cleared the scene.”

“Of course.”

As the rest of the room broke from stunned silence into noisy conversation, d’Artagnan and Porthos frogmarched Gavin Bridger out of the room between them.

\--

For the first few days after his arrest the house and grounds had swarmed with police and forensic teams, but despite this none of the searches of Bridger’s room or the wider house and garden had brought the jewels to light. The assembled house party mostly went their separate ways. Laura went home, and Candice had departed on a much-needed holiday, although having become somewhat reconciled with Anne, she had promised to return. Anne and Aramis were taking care of Louis together, and seemed to Athos to be quite content.

Athos himself had offered to stay on to continue helping with the renovations, but Anne called a halt, explaining that the sale of the other house was about to go through, and her attention was needed elsewhere for a while.

Athos and Porthos had therefore returned home, and although they’d only been away for a few days it seemed oddly longer. With Porthos busy wrapping up the case, Athos was glad of a visit from Constance, who’d come down to see d’Artagnan and made the trip out to Owlbrook to visit him.

While Constance was full of questions about the murders, Athos was more concerned with her visit from Treville. He was relieved to hear she’d had no further encounters, but was still full of guilt that he might have put her in harm’s way.

“There haven’t been any consequences for you? At work I mean?” Athos asked. 

Constance was silent for a beat. “Not overtly. Nobody’s mentioned my accessing the systems. But – when I came into work the next morning, I had an email informing me that the offer of funding for my legal courses had been withdrawn. Said it had been a time-sensitive offer, which had expired. Which nobody had ever mentioned before, so yeah. It’s just quietly been withdrawn. Which I guess makes up my mind for me about where I study.”

Athos put his head in his hands. “Constance I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. Thanks to you I at least I _have_ another option. Guess I’ll be moving down this way to do my legal training after all. It’s just taken the decision out of my hands, that’s all.”

“I never meant for this to happen.”

“I know. But let’s face it, twenty grand buys you a lot of forgiveness.” She gave him an ironic smile. “And d’Artagnan’ll be happy. He didn’t want me to stay in London anyway.”

“Does he know what’s happened?”

“Most of it. I may have downplayed the scary bit,” Constance admitted, looking embarrassed. “I don’t want him thinking I can’t take care of myself and getting all overprotective. And there’s no more danger. Is there?”

Athos shook his head quickly. “I can’t imagine so. I was half expecting for Porthos or I to hear from the man ourselves, but there’s been nothing. I can’t work out what his involvement is in this. He clearly has an interest in Porthos, but what that is...” Athos broke off with a helpless shrug. “Maybe we’ll never know.”

“Maybe it’s better not to,” Constance said seriously, looking worried. “You weren’t there Athos, he was frightening. If Porthos’ father is mixed up with the secret service somehow – do you really want to get involved?”

Athos nodded slowly. “We’ve discussed it,” he said. “Porthos says it’s worse not to know, than to discover something bad about the man. And as far as I’m concerned, the decision is his.”

Constance accepted this, although she didn’t look any happier. “I just hope you don’t live to regret it,” she sighed.

\--

Perhaps it was only that it had been on his mind, but when a strange man rang the doorbell a few hours after Constance had gone, Athos knew instinctively who it was.

"The mysterious Treville, I assume."

The visitor merely raised an eyebrow. “You appear to be expecting me.”

Athos folded his arms. “Oh yes, I said your name three times into a mirror and look. Here you are.”

"May I come in?" Treville asked, with visible restraint. It was clear he wasn’t used to being spoken to in such a way, which somehow made Athos want to poke at him even more.

"If you’re looking for Porthos he isn't here. I'm his partner."

"I know who you are. Athos de la Fère. One-time barrister for Benet and Shaw, currently on a medical leave of absence from a small county firm of solicitors."

"I can see you've done your homework."

"I was concerned as to why a firm such as Benet and Shaw should be interested in me. Although as it transpired, they didn't, not exactly."

"You frightened my friend." Athos said flatly.

"I was entirely civil to the young lady."

"You waited until she was alone and approached her on a dark road. Either you're incredibly obtuse, which I very much doubt for a man in your position, or it was your intention to frighten her. You could've spoken to her in a public place, but perhaps you thought you'd be more likely to get answers if she was unsettled?"

"Whereas you've never done anything ethically dubious to further your enquiries."

"Oh I've done lots of things I'm not especially proud of," Athos acknowledged. "But I've never made a woman afraid for her personal safety."

"I'm not here to debate my ethics with you."

"No, you're here for Porthos. Who's at work." Athos frowned. "Which presumably you could have guessed."

"Correct. I wanted to speak with you first. May I come in?" Treville asked again, and this time Athos stood back and let him enter, directing him into the living room but pointedly not offering him a drink of anything. 

"You know by now why we were searching for you,” Athos said. “Porthos is looking for his father."

"His father is dead. He died when Porthos was a child."

"Phillipe du Vallon wasn't his father." Athos shook his head. "And I get the feeling you know that perfectly well."

Treville looked at him assessingly. "I'm intrigued to know how you do."

"Porthos had a DNA test done. He wanted to trace his ancestry. He was rather surprised when it indicated his father must have been white." 

"So that’s it. Modern technology's got a lot to answer for," Treville sighed.

"It came as a considerable shock to him. He has a photograph of the people he’d been told were his parents.” Athos hesitated. “One thing I've wondered - and I don't think this has occurred to Porthos - was he adopted? Were either of the people in that photo his real parents?"

"Yes. Marie was his natural mother. Phillipe, as you have surmised, was not his father, although he cared for that baby as if he was."

Athos finally voiced the thing he’d been wondering all along. "Is it you? Are you Porthos' father?"

Treville looked at him in what appeared to be genuine surprise, and took a moment before answering.

"No. I'm not. Although perhaps I wish I could say I was. He's turned into a fine young man. I'm curious, why did you think I might be?"

"You used to visit him. When he was a child."

"How could you possibly know that?" Treville stared at him, wrongfooted for the first time since entering the house.

"You were seen. Remembered."

Treville shook his head slowly. "I should have stayed away. But I felt something of a responsibility towards him." 

"You know who his real father is, don't you?"

"Mr la Fère, if you care for him, which I assume you do, you will persuade him to drop this search."

"That's not my decision to make."

"But you presumably have some influence over him." Treville got up and prepared to leave.

Athos followed him to the door, seeing their chance of learning the truth slipping away. "How do we get hold of you?"

"You don't. This conversation is at an end. I came here simply to instruct you both to cease your efforts, before they lead you somewhere you do not want to be."

Athos stepped in front of him, blocking his exit. "I think you'll find we are both capable of making a considerable nuisance of ourselves. I imagine that would be quite a problem in your job."

"Do you have any idea how easily I could have you arrested?" Treville asked coldly.

"Oh I have no doubt you could have me banged up on trumped up charges within the hour," Athos retorted. "But I'm not that easily intimidated. And the fact that you're trying tells me you've got something to hide. Which is interesting."

Treville looked him over with an open irritation that softened into something like grudging respect. "He chose well with you, didn't he?" he murmured. "Oh, very well." Treville withdrew a card from his pocket and passed it over. It had a landline telephone number printed on it, and nothing else. "He can contact me at this number. But I have nothing more to tell him than what I've told you. If you have any sway over him at all, I suggest you talk him out of this."

"Is the answer really that bad?" Athos asked quietly, as Treville walked round him and opened the door. 

"I've given you my recommendation. That's all I have to say. You must understand, I'm just trying to protect him."

"Then why not just tell us the truth and let him decide? He's not going to give up. Is the man a criminal, is that it?"

Treville turned to look at him but said nothing, merely touched the brim of his hat with an old fashioned gesture of respect. 

“Goodbye Mr la Fère. I very much doubt we shall meet again.”

\--

"And that was all he'd say?" Porthos asked that evening for the tenth time, turning the slip of card over and over in his hand.

"Cryptic wasn't the word for it," Athos sighed. 

"Did he really threaten to arrest you?"

"Yes. But given that he does at least appear to have some genuine regard for you, I'm assuming he wouldn't. But it's a risk I'm willing to take."

“I don’t want to get you into danger any more than you wanted to risk Constance,” Porthos protested, looking troubled. 

Athos leaned over and took his hand. “I can take care of myself.” They both considered that statement, and Athos acknowledged the shakiness of the ground he was on with a wry smile. “When it comes to taking on the big boys, anyway. I concede I may be a mess in all other areas.”

“You’re doing fine,” Porthos promised, pulling Athos in closer to kiss him. 

“Will you phone it?” Athos asked.

“You haven’t tried?”

“No, I left it for you.”

More nervously than he cared to admit, Porthos dialled the number on the card. With something of an anticlimax it went straight to an answerphone, an automated female voice giving nothing away, other than an instruction to leave a message.

“This is Porthos de Vallon. I’d like to speak with Mr Treville. He can reach me on this number.” Porthos recited his mobile number, suspecting that if Treville had wanted to contact him he’d be perfectly capable of finding it out for himself, and possibly already had. 

“I’m not interested in making trouble for anyone,” he added on impulse. “Whatever happened when I was born, it’s in the past. I just want to know the truth. I deserve that, if nothing else. Please.”

He hung up, abruptly unable to say anything more. 

Athos took his hand and kissed his fingers. “Come on. Let’s have an early night. You look like you need cheering up, and I believe that would be my job.”

Knowing a good deal when he heard it, Porthos didn’t protest as he was lead up to the bedroom, where Athos took him apart inch by ecstatic inch, until he’d been reduced to a warm and happy haze.

\--

“Do you think I should give up?” Porthos murmured later, lying boneless and content in Athos’ arms.

“Do you want to?”

Porthos considered his answer. Part of him wanted nothing more than this, to feel safe and loved and look forward to a shared future with Athos. But he knew however much he tried to forget it, his past was just as important to him, and would remain a hole in his life until he knew the truth. And they had a shot, now, at finding answers.

“No.”

“Then we don’t,” said Athos simply. “No giving up. No surrender.” Spooned up against Porthos’ back, he hugged him tighter and pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder. “They wont know what’s hit ‘em.”

\--

While most people were keen to put the murders from their minds as soon as possible, the subject that had remained on everyone’s lips was the location of the alleged stash of jewels. Depending on the value, which given Bridger’s willingness to kill for them was assumed to be considerable, if they could be proved to have originally belonged to Feron they would form part of Anne’s legitimate inheritance, and her money worries would be over. However, despite confessing willingly enough to the murders, Bridger had so far stayed obstinately silent on their whereabouts.

Going over it in the pub the following evening, Aramis theorised Gavin must have slipped into the village and posted them to an accomplice somewhere, while Porthos argued he hadn’t had time to get off site, and they must be somewhere in the house – perhaps behind another secret panel.

“I bet I know where they are,” said Athos slowly. Aramis and Porthos looked at him in surprise and he smiled. “Think about it. He told us himself. He picked the chapel as a place to stash his things. If they’re nowhere else, then I bet you any money they’ll be there.”

The following morning the three men met up at the house, intent on a treasure hunt now that the chapel had finally been given the all-clear by the forensic team. Once Jensen’s body had been removed to the mortuary, the human remains below it had been excavated, examined and formally identified as black death victims.

“I spoke to Sylvie about it,” Athos told them as they walked down through the grounds. “She says there’s records that suggest the village nearly died out in the thirteen hundreds. People abandoned what was left and started again, which why the church is on the boundary of the village rather than in the centre, as you might expect.”

“Do you think there are more graves to be found?” Aramis said soberly.

“Who knows.” Porthos looked through the trees at the lower meadows leading down to the church in the distance. “Maybe if that guy’s plan to build chalets down there had gone ahead, more would’ve turned up.” He looked up at the trees, bursting into spring leaf and full of birds. “But I’d say this isn’t a bad spot to spend eternity.” 

“What will happen to the remains?” Athos asked him curiously.

“Once they’ve established there’s no infection risk they’ll be returned to Aramis.”

Aramis nodded. “I’ve offered to arrange a reburial, this time in the churchyard.”

“I’d guess that might solve Anne’s haunting problem,” Athos said. 

“You think it was them?”

Athos considered. “It felt like a lot of voices, all too faint to be heard individually but still with a presence. Like the hum of a distant swarm of bees,” he said thoughtfully. “With the same sense of potential threat. I don’t think they could’ve hurt anyone, but it wasn’t particularly pleasant.”

“I never felt anything,” Aramis sighed.

“Neither did Feron, presumably,” Athos said. “He lived here his whole life. I don’t think everyone picks up on the same – vibrations maybe. Maybe it’s more a question of quantum physics than spiritual sensitivity,” he offered, seeing that Aramis looked a little gloomy. “Maybe one day we’ll understand how it all works. Besides, you spend all day in churches, if you could hear the dead you’d probably end up with tinnitus.”

Aramis laughed then, and Athos smiled. “How are things generally?” he asked. “With Anne, I mean.” 

“Good. She’s finally accepted my proposal.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” 

They’d reached the chapel by now, and looked around speculatively. 

“How are we supposed to find what the constabulary’s finest couldn’t?” Aramis sighed, suddenly feeling it was a hopeless task after all.

“They weren’t especially looking for the jewels down here,” Porthos pointed out. “They were more concerned with the whole murder thing. Plus we’d been assuming they were hidden somewhere in the house.”

“I know, they practically took Gavin’s room above the garage apart at the seams,” said Aramis dryly. “Do I get a police carpenter to help me put it all back together again?”

“If we find the bloody things, you’ll be able to pay for one,” Porthos grinned, unabashed. “Come on, let’s split up, take a wall each. It’ll save time.”

They proceeded to comb through the ruins, searching for loose stones, slabs that might conceal chambers beneath, and likely looking holes. 

Other than disturbing two blackbirds and a toad, they hadn’t found much else when Athos straightened up and looked around, wiping mud off his hands. Porthos was some distance away, having decided to check the nearby trees for likely looking holes, and Athos moved closer to Aramis, wanting to satisfy his own curiously on another theory he’d developed.

“He’s yours, isn’t he?” Athos ventured. “Louis, I mean?”

Aramis stopped dead and looked over at him. “How do you know?”

“I can see it in your face. You’ve stopped looking so tense all the time.”

Aramis winced. “Will you – you don’t have to tell Porthos do you?” 

“You think he won’t guess as well?” Athos smiled, then shook his head at Aramis’ look of consternation. “What’s wrong?”

“Technically she’s committing fraud, by maintaining he’s Bourbon’s son. Wouldn’t Porthos be obliged to prosecute her?” Aramis asked tentatively.

“As long as no one brings a complaint against her he’d have no reason to get involved,” Athos said. “And he’s hardly likely to make trouble off his own back. He might be bound to uphold the law, but he’s also got the biggest heart I know.” Athos clasped Aramis’ shoulder. “Your secret’s safe with us. I promise.”

He turned back to regard the ruins, that had so far defeated their attempts to locate the jewels. “Maybe I was wrong about this though,” Athos sighed. “I was so sure they’d be here.”

“Look!” From somewhere behind them Porthos called out in a low voice, and they both turned to see where he was indicating. A stone angel, half hidden by ivy guarded what had once been the chapel entrance, and once more perched on top of it was a beautiful barn owl.

As they watched, the owl spread its wings and ghosted off into the trees, and Athos started forward.

“What are you dong?” Aramis asked, as Athos quickly found a foothold in the wall and hauled himself up beside the statue.

“They wanted to be found,” Athos called down indistinctly. “The people in the pit. Who’s to say they might not return the favour by helping us find what we’re looking for? Ahh!” 

Porthos and Aramis jumped, thinking he’d been bitten by something, but Athos reached down into a deep hole behind the angel’s weathered wings, and teased out what proved to be a waterproof bag.

Athos threw it down to Aramis, who caught it with a startled exclamation. It was heavier than he expected, and he hefted it in his hand as Athos climbed back down.

“Coincidence,” said Porthos, still largely unwilling that the owl’s presence might have had anything to do with the discovery.

“Maybe.” Athos smiled. “Aren’t you going to open it?” he asked Aramis.

“You found it.” Aramis offered it back, but Athos shook his head. 

“If it is the jewels, they belong to Anne now. You should be the one to take them to her.”

Aramis carried the bag over to a stump of broken masonry, and unzipped the top. Inside was a fold of oilcloth, and inside that in turn was a velvet pouch. 

He carefully unlaced the top and they all held their breath as he tipped the contents out onto the cloth.

And into the morning sunlight poured a seemingly endless rope of sparkling diamonds.

\--


End file.
